


Lead Me to a Place Called Home

by AngryPirateHusbands



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Death, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 70,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryPirateHusbands/pseuds/AngryPirateHusbands
Summary: Modern AU.After Thomas' death, James finds himself unable to cope. He spends the majority of his time locked away in Thomas' study, attempting to drown out the pestering voices of guilt and self loathing. Unfortunately, the only thing he finds at the bottom of the bottle is more despair. And then he meets John Silver.





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Rated E for later chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=6s8094)  
> 

It took several weeks after Thomas' passing for James to find the courage to leave the home he had shared with him and Miranda. He had not the energy nor the desire to face the world outside those walls. Within them there was comfort. Memories of Thomas and the love the three of them had shared. Outside there was nothing but the ugliness of the world. Stark reminders of the horrors he had wrought, how Thomas' death was his fault. No matter how Miranda had tried to convince him otherwise, the guilt had already set itself in place. It had latched onto the dark recesses of his heart and only festered with each passing day.

_You killed him. It's all your fault._

James spent the majority of his time locked away in Thomas' study. If he wasn't losing himself in the myriad of books that made up his vast collection, he was attempting to drown out the pestering voices of guilt and self loathing. Unfortunately, the only thing he found at the bottom of the bottle was more despair. He did his best to provide comfort to Miranda. Truly, he did. He wanted nothing more than to provide a comforting shoulder for her to cry on, to lend an ear to her own suffering. Yet he found himself unable. How could he do anything for her when he couldn't even keep himself sober?

Fortunately Miranda was much stronger than he. She faced her loss with the same grace and strength she had always possessed. She grieved, yes, but she also found within herself the drive to move on and live. Something he was unable to even see, let alone grasp.

It took two months for James to re-establish some semblance of routine, simple though it was. Get up, brush his teeth and shower, pull on a fresh change of clothes, and manage to choke down some toast and black coffee. The basics of every day life had been the first to slip from his fingers after the accident. Miranda assured him that these simple acts were nothing less than substantial progress. Even so he failed to see it. True, he now managed to crawl out of bed before noon, and no longer left Thomas' study simply to fetch more liquor. But to him it made little difference. The night terrors continued. The anxiety and guilt still tore through him with a paralyzing ferocity. There was no peace.

Frequently James would awaken in the middle of the night with a sudden jolt. Damp hair would cling to his face from the cold sweat brought on by his nightmares. His cheeks would be streaked wet with tears and bile could be tasted on the back of his tongue. The image of Thomas' bloodied face would persist even as he rolled over to gaze up at the ceiling, broken sobs escaping his chest with a shaking force. Miranda would stir beside him and pull him close. She never said anything, and James never wanted her too. Her presence was enough. The soft touch of her hand against his... was enough. At least for a while.

Eventually Miranda returned to the life that continued outside the safety of the house's walls. She returned to her position as an art appraiser, to the sociable life she lived before everything came crashing down. She returned to her friends, to the museum outings, the get togethers and art shows. In doing so she left _him_ , surrendering him to his own devices for the majority of the day. It wasn't as though she didn't wish for him to come with her. She tried. God, how she tried. Yet he couldn't. Immediately after their lover's death, James had taken an indefinite leave of absence from his own work. He couldn't handle leaving the flat for much longer than a few hours. Couldn't stomach the attention, planning, and social interaction that teaching required.

It was something he had enjoyed for many, many years. Speaking about literature, lecturing over the importance of the written word, the classics. That part of him had died along with Thomas.

Gates had more than readily accepted his resignation from the university. The two had been colleagues for several years and good friends far past that. While he may not have understood his loss, he would not stand in his way. He knew James too well. If he said he needed time, then time he would get it. Even so, he assured him that the moment he felt the desire to return to teaching there would be a place for him. While James viewed it as little more than a kind gesture, he appreciated it nonetheless.

Someone often came to visit him during the hours of Miranda's absence. Or rather, to keep an eye on him. It had readily become apparent that the moment she left James would return to his now normal pattern of self destruction. To partake in a drinking binge before two in the afternoon was not an uncommon occurrence. It often went hand in hand with destroying parts of the study whenever he fell into a particularly harsh fit. Tearing books from the shelf and throwing whatever he could get his hands on. Before long the once studious room had fallen into disrepair. A pit of empty liquor bottles, torn books, flung papers, and shattered lamps and clocks.

Gates visited him as often as he could, which was not much due to his position of department head at the university. When it wasn't him it was either Charles or Jack. While they could hardly keep the gnawing guilt and depression at bay, at the vary least they could keep him from drinking while they were there. The visits were always the same. Jack would reassure him that the accident wasn't his fault. Charles would tell him that he should see someone. The words they spoke had already been repeated by Miranda numerous times. That grieving was normal but now it was clear that he was in trouble. James never disagreed, but he didn't exactly agree, either.

Yet one day James was forced to accept this reality. Gates had finally been able to stop by for the first time in weeks. The man had pried the bottle of whiskey from his hand and forced himself into Thomas' study to prove a point, to show him that this was not coping. The moment those doors were thrown open James could feel it. The way the guilt and anger and hatred sunk deep into his stomach not unlike a heavy stone. His breaths began to hitch as that tightness formed in his chest. Gates was talking, he could see his lips moving yet he couldn't make out the words. It felt as though his head was surrounded by water. It deafened him, filled his lungs until he couldn't breath.

James didn't register the change in the man's expression as he realized that something was wrong. He didn't feel the hands that gripped his shoulder and guided him to sit down. All that James could focus on was the lack of sensation in his fingertips, how his heart pounded erratically in his chest like a drum as he tried to catch his breath and failed. How the world felt as though it was closing in around him. How, for the second time that day, he was dying.

He wasn't sure how long the attack lasted this time. It could have been as short as a few minutes or as long as an hour. Sometimes they even lasted longer than that. When James finally began to calm he drew in a deep breath. In and out. He forced a firm swallow as his eyes opened to gaze down at his hands. Though the strange prickling sensations remained, at the very least he could feel the bite of fingernails against his palm and move his fingers with purpose. Another breath rocked through him before he dared to look up.

Gates was kneeling down beside him, his face hardened in a concerned expression. "How often does this happen?" he asked. His tone was firm.

James swallowed once more. "A few times a day," he confessed.

Gates gripped his knee. "You _need_ to see someone."

* * *

Another week passed before James finally followed his friend's advise. Gates had given him the numbers of several nearby therapists and psychiatrists. However, it had fallen to Miranda to actually give them a call. He was struggling in far more ways than one. It wasn't that he was still fighting against the fact that he needed professional help. No, he was far passed that realization. Instead it was the shame that stopped him. The idea that he was so weak he needed someone else, a stranger, to pick up the remaining pieces of his life and try to put them back together. Thomas had taught him the importance of not giving in to shame. But now, without him... it was all he felt. Guilt and anger and shame raged within him. Encompassed him completely with a suffocating weight.

James was taken to these appointments in alternating shifts. For the most part it was Charles that drove him there. It was close enough to his place of work, and he insisted that he didn't mind it in the least. He knew how he couldn't be behind the wheel of a car, not this soon. Just sitting in the passenger seat of the vehicle caused a panic attack to wreck through him the first several times. Yet he made it through; somehow.

The name of his therapist was Mr. Scott. He was a warm, pleasant man with a soothing timbre to his voice. His psychiatrist had the unusual last name "Teach". A far less welcoming of a man, but as he only required his services for drug prescriptions, he didn't much mind.

The official diagnosis was PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

This did not come as much of a surprise. James had heard of it before and was fairly well-versed with the symptoms. Yet, in some way, it provided a small amount of relief to give the emotions that raged within him a name. It normalized what he was experiencing. Made him feel as though he may not be losing his mind after all.

It took six months for the therapy and cocktail of medications to take a positive effect. In a way, James wasn't quite certain which part of his recovery was more arduous. Opening up to his therapist had been incredibly trying experience, considering how he hardly even spoke to Miranda about what their loss meant to him. At the beginning he could only manage to relay the details of the incident itself before those choking breaths silenced him. Quickly he lost track of how many panic attacks Mr. Scott became privy to. The man always remained quiet and compassionate, giving him the space he needed as he reminded him to breathe. In and out. In and out. And when the attack inevitably passed he would offer him a glass of water, and they would continue.

The medications were a struggle all on their own. Whoever thought that one's problems could be solved with a pill was a damned fool. The side effects of the medications alone were enough to send him into a tailspin. Not to mention having to wait weeks to not only to see if the side effects would subside, but whether or not they would even treat the condition they were prescribed for. Eventually, though, he found his balance. PTSD was not something that could be cured, but Mr. Scott assured him that with proper management he could return to his previous quality of life.

The nightmares never went away, not completely, but they certainly came to him less and less. Yet the guilt he felt persisted. _You killed him. It's your fault._ James had long resigned that it would never go away. That dark voice that gnawed at the edge of his mind had become a part of him. Even so he could sense his own improvement. He began to leave the house for reasons other than therapy or a quick run to the liquor store. While he still felt aversion to driving he figured it was for the best. Fresh air and exercise would only help to clear his mind and lessen the anxiety that gripped him. James also began to save his drinking for the evening hours when Miranda was not yet home. Despite the warning from his psychiatrist he refused to put down the bottle. Mixing alcohol and medications was dangerous, yes, but he couldn't yet give it up. He wasn't yet at a place where he could tolerate hours alone by himself; not if he was sober.

James was certainly better, but he was still far from fine. Fortunately he had all but perfected the act of behaving within the lines of normalcy. When he drank more than usual he rinsed out the bottles and tossed them into the neighbor's trash before Miranda could see them. He traveled from the house more and more, and began taking cabs when the walk was too far instead of relying on a friend. He had even recovered enough of his wits to clean out the disaster of a mess he had caused in Thomas' study. While the effort had caused a panic attack within minutes, he eventually got through it. Within a few days the study had been returned to its previous state. Albeit short a few lamps he had broken. Miranda took his progressing recovery in stride.

By eight months they had finally sat down and talked openly about their situation. They spoke about Thomas, his death, and where they were now. What it boiled down to was this: They loved each other. They would _always_ love each other. But now, after all that had transpired, they realized that they were not _in_ love with each other. Miranda felt that it was time to move on, and James somberly agreed. Though the house had belonged to her and Thomas, she explained that they had written him into the will. Now she insisted that he have it. It was too painful for her to remain here, she said, but at the same time she felt that this place would only aid his own recovery. If he wished to stay here, that was great, but the moment he became unhappy he could sell it, rent it out; whatever he wished.

Miranda, generous and concerned for him as she had always been, began this transition gradually. She had already leased out a condo but was resolved to move her things over pieces at a time. She wanted this to be as smooth and as easy for him as possible. Even after her belongings were moved, she returned to spend the night several days a week. James appreciated this more than she would ever know. Though he had grown accustomed to playing the part, to wearing that mask that concealed his persisting pain, he was in tatters. By the time Miranda had moved out completely, he had taken several steps backwards in his recovery. It was not her fault of course, but it own.

_It's your fault. Your fault._

Charles and Gates continued to pay him visits during the day, as did Miranda when she found the time. No matter what she made it a point to see him for a few hours every Tuesday afternoon for lunch. And yet...

_You killed him._

In her absence the night terrors returned with a vengeance. James would scream himself awake during the night in a way he hadn't quite before, his body shaking apart and drenched in sweat. He would see Thomas' face as he sat beside him, his features warm and full of life with a smile on his lips. That final moment of peace before the headlights of the oncoming car blinded him. He then heard nothing but the sick crunching of metal and twisting plastic. The shattering of the passenger side windows, and the squealing of tires against the pavement as the car that ran that red light slammed into them. The way his stomach flipped just as the car rolled before grating to slow a halt on its side. He heard the shouts and cries, the eventual sirens. These nightmares were recurring. Without Miranda's comforting presence beside him, they seemed even worse. He was alone.

_You drove her away._

James began to skip his therapy sessions. First it was one appointment, then another, and soon he stopped going altogether.

_It's your fault._

It only took him canceling on Miranda's plans once for her to tell that something was wrong. As she was in another city for a business trip, all she could do was sick Gates on him. The man showed up on a Tuesday afternoon at the time Miranda normally would. He was greeted with a rather unkempt James, dressed in sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, with a bottle in hand and a foul mood near the surface. Despite the drawback his friend remained surprisingly calm. He didn't try to talk James into returning to his appointments. He knew him better than that by now. Instead he encouraged him, begged him, to find some sort of healthy outlet. To get the hell out of this house, to talk to someone, anyone, about what he was going through. Gates took his shoulder in a comforting grasp as he assured him that this was a simple set back, nothing more.

Despite his initial unease, James found himself following his friend's advice. He continued to leave the house in lengthening increments. He would walk anywhere and everywhere he could. Eventually, he began to realize that the empty house was causing more harm than good. Without Miranda it lacked its usual warmth. It had become an empty shell, open and cold, and only personified his loss.

James tried his hands at several different trades just as Gates had suggested. He thought painting would be a good fit for expression. While it may have been for others, it caused him more frustration than anything else. Whatever he tried to illustrate turned into a frustrating mess. Writing was just as excruciating, if not more so. He couldn't find it in himself to create anything. Coupled with his struggle and the medicines that were supposed to help, he didn't have the focus. As a last ditch effort he bought a camera. A cheap, plastic toss-away from the drug store on the corner. To his surprise this was something he took to instantly. With photography there was no pressure to create something from a blank slate. Instead he could simply capture the world around him.

The trees and flowers, the cityscape, the old buildings he passed by every day... they each had the propensity to share a story or convey a feeling. With his camera he became an interpreter, a storyteller. And god, did he love it. More than that, he was quite talented at it. It was often said that every one had something they just naturally took to, and this was his. It was his release, his escape, his means of expression. And with each photo he took, each piece of scenery he captured, he found himself regaining pieces of who he had lost when Thomas died.

There was one other piece of his recovery that Miranda and Gates, all of them, really, insisted on. And that was social interaction. Since the car accident James had become quite the recluse. While he now found it in himself to leave the house for the better part of the day, he still spent the majority of it alone. Just he and his camera lens. He also spent several hours a week with Miranda, Gates or Charles, but apparently that didn't count. He needed to interact wiTh strangers, meet new people.

After ten months James felt well enough to finally humor this last bit of advice. Granted, he tweaked it a bit. Once a week he walked down to the pub to spend a few hours sitting at the bar. It was late enough in the week for there to be a crowd large enough to test the limits of his comfort zone, but not so much as to trigger an episode of panic. As it wasn't quite the weekend it wouldn't be too full of rowdy college students. It was loud, but not overly so. Most patrons were old enough to be seeking little more than a drink among pleasant company. There was always live music playing, too. Sometimes it was a single guitarist, sometimes it was a singer, and occasionally it was a small band. Always something different, but strangely similar at the same time.

While James didn't exactly converse with anyone but the bartender, a fairly young woman named Eleanor, he thought it was close enough to be considered socializing. At least he was spending time _around_ people, even if he didn't quite feel up to excessive conversation. Eventually the pub found its way into his strict routine. He walked down to that old building every Thursday, sat at the same seat at the bar, and ordered the same drink: Two apple cider lagers. Yet another benefit of this place was that it helped him drink in moderation. While photography proved to be a generous outlet for his emotions, he still found himself in a difficult state at home. Drinking alone made it far too easy to go on yet another binge.

As with everything, it was a start.


	2. Recovery

The pub was a small, independent establishment called Nassau's. Apparently it was named after a small island located somewhere in the Caribbean. It possessed a certain charm. The floors and walls were a worn wood, washed in shades of gray and deep brown. The bar itself was sleek and lined with simple oak barstools. Oars and fishing nets hung against the walls, the large antiques interspersed with old parchments and charcoal drawings. Unlike most taverns there was no juke box lying in wait in the corner. Instead the owners and patrons seemed to prefer the authenticity of live music.

After a few weeks of his scheduled visits James began to notice something. While each band or performer possessed their own unique signature, there was something within it that struck him as similar. Something about the melody, the cords of the guitar, but not quite. After a few more Thursday nights he realized the reason why. The accustic guitarist was always the same. He would have realized it sooner had he ever bothered to raise his stare up from the bottle in front of him.

The man who played always sat behind and off to the side of whoever was the lead performer that night. Tonight in particular he was granted an unobstructed view from the bar, as he was providing the tune for a sole performer. A woman with caramel colored skin and rich brown hair, whose French accent was thick and unmistskable. There was no denying her beauty, but his eyes remained fixed on the man behind her.

The guitarist appeared to be maybe five or so years younger than himself. Thick black curls draped passed broad shoulders that were clothed in a simple yet tight button-up shirt. He sported a neatly trimmed beard, along with a goatee and mustache that did little to detract from the youthful features of his face. The beautifully tanned skin only made his blue eyes seem that much more brilliant. But there was something else, too. The joy he felt as he played was unmistakable. The man's blue eyes shown bright as fingers moved easily over the cords and a smile played on his lips.

James hadn't realized he was staring until the musician's gaze rose to meet his own. His smile only grew as he took notice of him. Quickly James looked away. The familiar pangs of guilt and shame moved through him as he attempted to drown them under a long draut of his beer. Harmless though it was, he had no business looking at someone else in such a way.

_It's your fault._

While those green eyes had returned to rest on the bar before him, James' ears remained trained on the music. He now took special care to listen to the acoustic melody that rose in pace and volume with each swell of the singer's voice. There was no denying the man's talent with the wooden instrument. The way the sounds lilted through the room almost effortlessly with each pluck of the string, beautiful and captivating all on its own but not distracting from the "main" talent. When the song drew to a close he couldn't deny the ache that was left in his chest. He yearned to hear more.

"Like what you see?"

James could feel the tension forming in his muscles as someone drew a bit too close to him. It wasn't until said person was standing right beside him, hand flush against the counter, that he realized those words had been meant for him. Immediately he could feel the desert dryness in his mouth and the lack of feeling in his fingertips. Green eyes glanced upwards to find the source. When he saw the guitarist standing above him mere inches away, his mind stalled. Lips parted as he searched for words, anything, but any attempts to speak died before they left his tongue.

"Don't bother, Silver," a voice warned. Eleanor had returned to the bar, the woman wiping clean one of the glasses as she angled "Silver" a stern look. "He is quickly becoming a valued costumer, and I'd rather your prattle not scare him away."

Silver clutched a hand to his chest in feigned hurt at her words. "Just trying to make friendly conversation, ma'am," he assured her. The moment he returned his gaze James felt as though he had him pegged. Confident, almost cocky, and certainly charismatic. Likely used to getting his way. Based on the persisting smile he either knew no hardships or was an exceptional actor. The man was very pleasing to the eye, of that there was no doubt, but he wouldn't not allow such thoughts in his head.

_It's your fault._

James pulled his gaze away and went back to drinking, effectively ignoring the other man. Even if it wasn't for the tightness in his chest that warned of an oncoming panic attack, he wouldn't be over eager for conversation. He and Eleanor had run into each other numerous times in this establishment, and even then the most words they exchanged were, "The usual" and "Thanks". Silver seemed to catch on that his presence was not about to be welcomed for he began to draw away. But not before leaning over the bar to whisper something in Eleanor's ear. The only response he got was a huff and an eye roll. Still, that smirk on his lips remained as he pulled back and withdrew.

Not moments later a shot of whiskey was set down in front of him. James looked up at Eleanor with an arched brow. "On the house," she explained with an unimpressed expression. "Courtesy of Mr. Silver, there." Another eye roll. "I do apologize. He never quite grasped the concept of personal space."

Despite himself James found an amused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. The man was definitely cocky. He finished the rest of his lager but didn't touch the drink Silver sent to him. He had his routine. There was a purpose to it, a method to the madness as it were, and he wouldn't risk the anxiety that could result if he broke it. What's more, he didn't want to at all encourage the man's apparent advances. He wasn't interested. Not for conversation, not for friendship, not for anything.

_You don't deserve it._

James paid for his drinks, plus a generous tip as always, before standing and tugging his coat back around his shoulders. All the while he could feel the heavy weight of those blue eyes bearing into his back. As he fixed his collar and Eleanor collected his tab, he took that small step outside his comfort zone. "Good evening," he offered her. His voice was but a whisper but it was loud   enough for her to hear. A small smile graced her lips and she nodded, bidding him farewell.

* * *

The walk home was a deliberately slow one. The nippy evening air better allowed him to clear his mind and steady his breaths. James hadn't anticipated being approached, he never did, and so he was painfully aware of the uncertainty and adrenaline that coursed through his veins. As unpleasant as that has been, he couldn't seem to get the image of the man out of his mind. The soft features of his face, the curls of his hair, the strength in his arms. With a swallow he twisted his eyes shut. No, _no._ He couldn't do this; he wouldn't. Yet those unwelcome thoughts and imaged returned, only to be swiftly replaced with something else. Thomas' face, bloodied and void of color.

_It's your fault._

His footsteps hurried.

The moment James returned home he slammed the door shut behind him. The wood was firm against his back as he leaned heavily against it, eyes closed. Panic was already seeping through him. The quick, ragged breaths were quickly followed by that familiar numbness in his fingertips. He fought against the lightness in his head as he let his coat drop to the ground and found his way over to a chair. With trembling fingers he opened his medicine bottle and popped two pills into his mouth, chasing them with some water he had left out. A heavy breath passed his lips as he leaned back against the chair. Eventually he began to feel the pill's comforting effects. A thick fog rested over his mind as he sank into the chair and gave in to its warm, soothing embrace.

When the panic attack eventually dissipated James vaguely wondered if he should find a new pub to frequent. Almost immediately he knew the answer. It wouldn't be a good idea to do that. When he had still gone to his appointments with Dr. Scott, he had stressed the importance of establishing a routine and sticking with it. And what's more, not avoiding places or situations where an anxiety attack occurred. Doing so would only reinforce the fear and make things more difficult later on. Besides, this was what Miranda had wanted for him. To test the boundaries of his comfort zone so that one day, maybe, he would be back to his old self.

It wasn't because a part of him wanted to see that man again, to hear his music again. No. No, not at all.

* * *

 

The next few days passed by just as the numerous ones before them. He got up, showered, and got dressed for the day before managing something for breakfast. Now not just toast and coffee, but sometimes a fried egg as well. Small steps, Miranda had told him, small steps. He then spent a few hours reading downstairs. Since Miranda had left he hadn't dared to go back into Thomas' study. Just touching the handle made a sweat break out along his skin. He then bundled himself up before setting out for a day of walking through the city with his camera. He had long gotten rid of the little plastic thing from the corner store. Instead he had upgraded to a DSLR. A Nikon, to be exact. He loved the way it felt in his hands. And with this new set up he was able to better realize just what he could do with photography.

While he still enjoyed capturing the landscapes at the edge of town, he much rather preferred to immortalize the city scape. The old, decrepit buildings always seemed to have the most intriguing stories. The worn, peeling paint of an old slanting house. The faded paint and chipped bricks of abandoned factories long reclaimed by the earth. These were the scenes that piqued his interest, that held the possibility of some narrative. At the hours between lunch and dinner he would return home. Quickly fix a small meal before disappearing to his room to go through and edit the photos he had labored over that day. He'd then text Charles or Gates, maybe have dinner with Miranda if it was that day of the week.

That was his schedule. That was what kept him sane and what kept the voices at bay, if only just.

That following Thursday James went to the pub just as he always did. He ordered the same drinks and sat at his usual place at the bar. This time, however, he allowed his eyes to wander over to the corner where the musicians and singers performed. There Silver was, just like the week before. The man was perched on a stool with the guitar in his lap, his left leg outstretched. Green eyes moved over his face, as if he were committing it to memory, before trailing down to his hands. Practiced fingers moved smoothly over the cords in a melody that was new to him, but beautiful nonetheless. What piqued his interest was the lack of any music sheet in front of him. Once again the guitarist caught his curious gaze and returned it with a smile. Just as warm, confident and charming as before.

James swallowed the lump in his throat before returning to his drink. At the end of the night when the man had finished his set, another shot of whiskey was pushed in front of him. Eleanor only offered a shrug. "He's a stubborn one," she attempted to explain.

James smirked. "No kidding."

Just as before, he finished his drinks but refused to touch the shot that had already been paid for. It wasn't as if he didn't enjoy whiskey, it was one of his favorites, but now he was becoming curious. Just how long would the man pursue this? Whatever "this" was, exactly? Boredom and curiosity were never a good combination, so James resolved himself to see just how long this game would last. He paid his tab and left.

This pattern at the bar continued for the next several weeks. The moment James sat down he would glance to see if the man was there, and just as always he would be. He was always sitting on that stool, left leg extended to some degree, and often with a similar group of musicians. Usually it was either the girl with the French accent, or with a rather angry looking redhead and a bald, bearded man. Silver always played in the back, but soon he began to hear songs where he lent his voice to the background melody. It was soft and silken, just as it had been when he spoke to him and Eleanor. A few nights he even played by himself. His voice lilted about the pub, combining with the music of the strings in an exceptional way. He was enamored with it.

At the end of the night a shot of whiskey always found itself in front of him. Yet to his intrigue, Silver never again attempted to strike up a conversation with him. He smiled, yes, sometimes winked, but he otherwise kept a respectful distance. To be truthful, James wasn't quite sure what type of game he was aiming at. Nonetheless he would play along. He became acutely aware that this was the first time he had been genuinely interested by someone since Thomas' passing.

One night this heavily practiced routine came to a screeching halt. It was destined to be a trying day from the start. It was the anniversary of the night Thomas and Miranda had welcomed him into their relationship. The first night Thomas had told him he loved him. The first night he had said it back...

When James arrived at Nassau's he had already had his fair share of drinks spread throughout the day. He didn't go out like he normally did in the mornings. It was back to just black coffee for breakfast and toast for lunch. He ignored any phone calls, and only responded to Miranda's myriad of texts once they had started piling up. And even then he had only responded with a simple "Kk". He was well aware that he was being selfish, truly. But today... Today was just one in which he couldn't put on a brave face.

So when that shot of whiskey was slid in front of him, he took it.


	3. Back and Forth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver's POV.

John had worked at Nassau's for a little over a year now. It provided decent enough money. Obviously not enough to ever pay for a college tuition, but at the very least it helped meet his rent payments. To be truthful, he came upon it by chance. The first time he entered the pub he did so with Max, a dear friend that was almost a sister to him. The jute box they had in the corner, practically an antique, suddenly stopped working. That was also when he met Eleanor. A confident, pragmatic women with a fiery temper when things didn't go as planned. Even now it seemed only fitting that the first words he had ever heard come from her mouth was a lewd string of curses. As it was a bar, after all, none of the patrons minded the sudden outburst. If anything it encouraged their chatter and drunken laughter.

John still remembered the smirk that had pulled at his lips when he glanced over at Max. She shared his smile before reaching down to take his hand and guide him forward. By the time they had crossed the room Eleanor was busy slamming her palm against the side of the juke box, swearing with every hit. As if somehow the combination would cause the thing to return with a new life. When Max cleared her throat the blond finally gave up the fight. She blew a stray lock of hair from her face as she turned towards them, brown eyes immediately scanning John up and down.

"Who's this?" she asked, giving Max a rather unimpressed look.

"John Silver," Max reminded her. Her tone insinuated that this was not the first time she had mentioned him. "For that cook's job, remember?"

Eleanor sighed, casting him another glance as her hands rested on her hips. "Bad timing," she relented. "The position was actually filled this morning." Her eyes then shifted to the guitar case that was slung across his back. And the rest, as they say, was history. He was the first musician the pub had ever paid for performances. Even now he was one of the few that was actually given compensation for his time. Many other bands came in, there was no mistaking that, but usually they played for free. In their minds, their payment came as the exposure to potential clients. A sound theory, if half of them were any good.

A good handful of people that came in were singers that were on their own, or small groups that couldn't even be considered a band as they needed a guitar player. That's where he came in. Playing acoustics had been John's passion since he was a child. He was exceptionally talented, if h did say so himself, though that did not come without years and years of practice. He had no qualm in playing a tune so that a singer could find their voice, or filling in some strings needed to make a song really gain a presence. Good music made the customers happy, which made Eleanor happy. Not to mention he thoroughly enjoyed it himself. He loved the challenge of trying different styles.

One of the bands he had come to frequently play with was called The Ranger. The singer was a stunning, albeit stern looking girl named Anne. There was also a bass player, Logan, and a man named Muldoon played the drums. Their style was a mixture of punk and folk rock. A very unusual combination, at least to him, but intriguing nonetheless. He had been playing with them fairly consistently for a few months now. Not just at Nassau's, but at other gigs as well. While it was new and exhilarating and he thoroughly enjoyed it, John was still hesitant to accept their offer of permanently joining their crew. Guess one could say he had some trust issues. Or maybe he was just adverse to commitment.

Either way, this place had quickly become a second home to him. Eleanor had always been more than accommodating when he was strapped for cash. He would exchange a few extra sets for a meal or wait tables if they were particularly understaffed. Granted, the first time he tried this his prosthetic leg had caught on the edge of a chair, and sent a platter of beer and fries crashing to the ground. Incredibly embarrassed, he explained to Eleanor his handicap. In turn she simply offered a shrug and told him to be more careful in the future. While some may have viewed her apparent disinterest as rude, to John it was like a breath of fresh air. There was no pity in her eyes and for that he was grateful.

* * *

John clearly remembered the first night he saw that head of brilliant copper hair. However, he had heard of their new mysterious patron far before that. Eleanor spoke of him often, the strangely silent man that always came in on the same day of the week, at the same time, ordering the same two drinks. Then one Thursday he just happened to look up as he came in, and he saw him. He could tell that it was him from the rusty copper locks alone. His hair was fairly short, reaching just below his ears, and was pulled back into a short queue. While he forced his thoughts to focus on the music, he snuck glances at the man between every set.

One evening when he felt the weight of a particularly heavy gaze, he was intruiged to see that it was Flint looking over at him from across the room. Flint being the nickname he had given him based on the flame that was his hair. Surely there was a similar spark within the man. John met those piercing green eyes and offered his most charming smile. Almost immediately Flint broke eye contact and returned to his beverage. He didn't look over at him again, not even after he had finished his set an approached the man at the bar.

"See something you like?" John asked. He leaned against the counter as he spoke to keep any undue weight off his leg. The smirk on his lips only widened when the man ignored him. Eventually, though, he seemed to awaken an peered up at him. This was the first time he had seen him up close, and god he was not disappointed. Despite the frown on his lips and the worry lines that creased his forehead, he was incredibly handsome. His dark auburn hair was pulled back as it always was, and now that he was closer he could see the silver stud in his left earlobe. His skin looked warm beneath the splattering of freckles. But those eyes were what captivated him. They were a deep emerald green with specs of gray and brown.

John hadn't realized he was staring until Eleanor's voice tore him from his thoughts. At her good natured warning he let loose a soft chuckle and clutched his chest. "Just trying to make friendly conversation, ma'am," he assured her with a smile. When he looked back down Flint, or Freckles, had returned to his drink. He had tried to strike up a conversation with enough strangers to recognize when he was being dismissed. Then again, John had never been known to take a hint and leave it at that. His stubbornness was legendary. And so he leaned across the bar and whispered into his boss' ear.

"Give him a shot of whiskey for me, eh?" he asked. Eleanor's eyes narrowed slightly. "Just humor me. Please?" he asked. When her hard stare didn't lessen he drew his eyebrows together in a pitiful expression. That finally seemed to have the desired effect.

"I'm docking it from your pay."

"I'll survive, thank you, Eleanor." He planted a friendly kiss on her cheek before wandering back over to his guitar. He wasn't overly surprised when, after Flint grabbed his coat and left, the shot of whiskey remained untouched. Eleanor was about to toss it out but he stopped her. "Come now, let's not let it go to waste." He threw it back, coughing briefly as he handed her the empty glass. "Every night he comes in, give him another, okay?"

A heavy sigh left the woman's lips. "What game are you playing at, John?" she asked.

John raised his hands in mock surrender. "Nothing, nothing. Just humor me," he repeated. She rolled her eyes but said no more. He took that as a yes.

Flint had caught his interest. Most of their regulars were pretty self explanatory. Lazy drunks that slouched over the counter, shoulders heavy, until Eleanor eventually cut them off. Usually older, hardened men. Then there were the college students that came in seeking to get absolutely shitfaced. Whether pissing away money they could spend on text books for the fun of it, or to quell some heartbreak they recently went through. This man didn't fit either description. He had a strict schedule and was very particular about it. Though he always ordered only two drinks, he took several hours to finish them. He never sought interest in getting drunk, and as his eyes rarely strayed from behind the bar it could be certain that he wasn't people watching. The man was a puzzle, and he wanted to figure it out. Normally he could read people so easily, but not him.

As the weeks went by Eleanor continued to slide a shot of whiskey in front of the man. Every time Flint would then glance over at him, and every time that curious expression would make John smile. Not angry, not pleased, just a calm, curious interest. Yet he never drank the whiskey. However, he also never pushed it aside. Nor did he outright tell him to fuck off. This told John two things: The first was that this man did not bend to social pressures. Typically when a man bought another a drink, there were only a few options in which to respond. One was batting it aside from some imagined slight to their masculinity before giving a loud, aggravated exclamation was that he wasn't gay. Another was simply saying he wasn't interested. The only other option was accepting the offer and throwing it back. Even if they weren't looking for a quick fuck or a hearty conversation, it was unusual for someone to pass up a free shot.

The second thing Flint's behavior taught him was that while he wasn't welcoming his advances, he wasn't denying them either. He was simply waiting out to see where this went, just as he was. This only made John more curious. He wondered about his story and the personality he so effortlessly kept shrouded behind that mask. He wanted to know him. And, eventually, he began to wonder if that freckled man experienced a similar pull. After all, it wasn't long before John felt the familiar weight of that heavy gaze with each weekly visit. At first it seemed to be just when the man entered and crossed over to his usual seat. He would catch his gaze and then quickly look away as if embarrassed, just as he had the first time. 

Eventually, though, their eyes began to lock for longer periods of time. Though their glances still lasted mere seconds, they were recurring throughout the night and John took it as a triumph. Sometimes he could even swear that his smile was returned with a slight upward twitch of the man's mouth. Still, he kept his distance. John wanted to see if he could coax the man into approaching him this time. It was certainly the longest and most trying game of cat and mouse he had ever played.

And then one night it finally happened. Flint had come into the bar a little later than usual. So much so that if John hadn't been resting in between songs, he would have figured the man was skipping this week's visit altogether. But there he was. He certainly looked more than just a little worse for wear. His usually even face was hardened with a deep frown and downcast eyes. But it was more than that. This time when Eleanor poured the man a shot of whiskey, the glass had barely tapped against the counter before he threw it back.


	4. And So We Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=t7hc9h)   
> 

John couldn't believe his eyes. Finally after what, two months of this tedious game of cat and mouse? -Finally Flint accepted the shot of whiskey that had been set before him every Thursday night. If it wasn't for the man's clearly haggard appearance he likely would have been smug. Instead he merely felt confusion and what could only boarder along the lines of concern. He didn't know anything about this man. There was no history, no emotional commitment, no connection whatsoever. Yet the concern he felt, while only slight, was unmistakable. And that served only to further obscure the mess of thoughts currently forming a tumultuous ocean within his mind.

During his myriad of scheduled appearances in this bar, it had become evident that Flint was a man of pragmatism and self preservation. His face had always been locked in that practiced, neutral mask of indifference. But not now. The man's mouth was twisted into a deep frown and his normally bright and piercing eyes now seemed dull and heavy. Even from his place across the room he could spot the dark circles that ran underneath his eyes. What could have happened to reduce his countenance to such a state? And not just that, but his appearance as a whole? While he was never pretentious in his manner of dress his clothes had always been clean and tidy, and perhaps even ironed. Now they were just as disheveled as the rest of him. He was dressed in worn jeans with fraying edges and a light jacket, which was definitely not suitable for the middle of December, covered a rather rumpled t-shirt.

"Oi. The fuck you lookin' at?"

As usual Anne's harsh words and even rougher tone of voice managed to pull him from straight from his thoughts. He was about to make some witty retort when Muldoon interjected.

"Come on, Anne, lay off." The man chuckled lowly as his fingers moved to tune the base that rested against his hip. "Silver's been trying to get that lay for months. Let him make eyes at him if he wants to; couldn't hurt."

John huffed loudly. "Screw both of you." Muldoon only laughed at the curt reply.

"Go on, you're obviously itching to go over there," Logan stated dryly. He was busy watching Muldoon to make sure he didn't fuck up his instrument. Despite the redhead's scowl he continued. "We're almost done for the night, anyway. We can manage two sets with the just the drums and base. Tonight, anyway."

"Charlotte kick you to the couch again?" Silver couldn't help but ask. At the hard stare this elicited he could only smirk. "You're always more sympathetic to another's plight when you're not getting laid," he explained.

With effortless discretion the man flipped up his middle finger. "Well I'm glad my misery is good for _someone_ ," Logan snorted. Muldoon laughed.

With a chuckle John decided to withdraw to the bar before the man could rescind his offer. He pulled the guitar strap from around his shoulders before leaning it back against the case. His bad leg was always a bit stiff after so many hours of sitting but he would make due. The sharp cut of Anne's voice moved through the room before being quickly accompanied by the thrum of the bass and drums.

As expected, Flint didn't so much as cast him a glance when he leaned against the bar beside him. While faint, Silver could smell the cigar smoke and liquor that clung to his clothes. This was obviously not the man's first drink of the evening, and it was doubtful that it would be the last.

"You look like shit," Silver offered after a moment of silence. Despite the crude statement a soft smile was still set on his lips.

"Well fuck you, too," the man bit back without missing a beat. When Eleanor returned to reclaim his emptied shot glass, he gestured with his fingers for two more. John didn't miss the warning etched in Eleanor's expression when she set another shot glass down and filled them both to the brim. If he managed to scare off another loyal customer she would have his hide. And not only that, but she would likely hang somewhere along the wall. A beautiful trophy, certainly, but also a warning not to fuck with her customer base.

John couldn't help the shock that surely colored his expression when Flint slid the second shot in front of him. He stared at it with an arched brow before glancing over at the man. He had already thrown back the whiskey and was now staring at him out of the corner of his eye. Waiting expectantly. Still a bit suspicious, John accepted the shot and tossed it back before returning it to the counter with a sharp clink.

"Does this mean we're friends now?" John couldn't help but ask. The smirk that curled at the corner of his mouth only grew when the man offered a derisive snort in return.

"Stop talking and just drink."

The next half hour or so was spent in complete and utter silence. Despite the music that roared in the background John could hear none of it. The only thing important enough to cloud his senses was the clinking of glasses as the pair steadily threw back shot after shot. Not to mention the way the ginger's features eventually began to soften from the liquor's ever soothing effects. While he was certain both men were fully capable of holding their alcohol under normal circumstances, Flint had already beaten him to a few drinks before he had arrived. And so, just as John was beginning to feel his body warm and his eyes grow heavy beneath a wonderful haze, the other man was already partially hunched over the bar. It wouldn't be long before Eleanor cut him off completely. Fortunately, the next time Eleanor reappeared before them he didn't ask for another drink. He didn't say anything. And so John took the initiative and ordered a plate of fries for them to split. As thrilled as he was that the stranger had finally accepted his offering and allowed him to get close, he'd rather the triumph not end with him passing out drunk on the floor. Besides, if Flint's day had been as rough as it appeared he likely hadn't had the presence of mind to eat much of anything.

John had long since taken a seat at the bar and he glanced over at the man now. Flint was hunched over the counter top, fingers moving over his temple before combing back through his hair. While his features had slightly softened he still didn't look much better than before.

"So," John began to asked casually, "May I ask what has you in such a sourly mood this evening?" Though he had taken to turning the shot glass over in his hands, he didn't miss it when those green eyes flicked over to him.

"Anniversary," he stated simply. Again his gaze fell to the bar top infront of them.

"Aah, so you're married," John chuckled. "My condolences."

" _Not_ that kind of anniversary." This time his tone held an edge it hadn't quite before. It provided enough of a warning to convince even John Silver not to further push the man.

When the plate of food arrived John quickly popped a french fry into his mouth before sliding the ceramic between the two of them. "Eat." Tonight was full of surprises it seemed, for Flint only hesitated a moment before reaching out for one of the deep fried delicacies. He ate slowly and with a gaze that was still far off in the distance, but even so John couldn't help but feel as though the barrier that surrounded him was slowly beginning to dissipate. This suspicion was confirmed not moments later when, for the first time, Flint spoke to _him_ first. It was only two words, but still.

"Your music.."

"Hm?" the man's voice had jostled him just as he was taking another fry between his teeth.

Flint slowly spun a ring on his forefinger as he appeared to organize his thoughts before trying again. A nervous tick? "You play with a lot of different people," he continued after a moment. "Bands. Always somethin' different, but... I've never seen a music sheet in front of you.." The man's words didn't quite slur but they were spoken with a notable delay. If Eleanor didn't cut him off in the event that he ordered another set of drinks he certainly would. Still, he couldn't help the slight smirk at the man's apparent intrigue. So he _did_ think about him.

"I have an eidetic memory," John explained. "It's--"

"--When you can vividly recall images from memory despite limited exposure," Flint finished for him. He rubbed his eyes almost tiredly before reaching for another curly fry.

John's smile became almost genuine as he released a breathy chuckle. "Well, you're certainly smarter than the average person." He received a simple grunt in return. Desperate not to let the conversation end there, John pushed forward. "What do you do?" he asked,m as he sucked some salt from his thumb.

"I used t' be a professor."

John laughed. "No." He had misunderstood. "What do you _do_? You know, for fun?"

 _"Fun?"_ Flint asked incredulously. He looked at him now as if he had just sprouted two heads. This only made John laugh harder.

"You know, for enjoyment? General merriment? Surely there's _something_ you like to do. And if you say something boring like 'watch tv'," John warned, "I'm walking away from you."

To his surprise a chuckle met his ears. "Then perhaps I should lie and say that, then." If John had so much as blinked he would have missed the smirk that briefly lifted the man's lips. Unfortunately it had disappeared before he could fully appreciate it. However, the man did proceed to actually answer the question. He told him how he had recently taken up photography and that he rather enjoyed it, though he assured him he wasn't any good. Before John never would have imagined the man to be the artistic type. Based on the way he was so closed off from anyone else, he rather would have imagined something along the lines of reading. When he told him as much Flint only laughed and said it just so happened to be his other hobby.

To his pleasant surprise the two of them continued their conversation. They talked about art and literature, and other trivial matters. However, it wasn't long until Flint's phone began to go off. The man fumbled slightly with the device before finally getting his fingers to cooperate and move it over to silent. He then slipped it into the pocket of his jacket that had been draped over the back of his chair. After a moment he mumbled something about needing to "take a piss" and stood. John watched with masked amusement as Flint gripped the edge of the counter for support as he regained what he could of his bearings before sauntering off to the back of the bar.

"He's not getting any more tonight," Eleanor's voice quipped. As always she had a penchant for appearing as if out of thin air.

John could only nod in agreement. "How much did he have?" he asked, simply curious as picked at what food remained on their shared plate.

"Before you came over? Four shots of whiskey."

Fuck. So that's seven shots total, not including however much he had to drink before he even came in. And those first few had been down in, what? The few minutes it took for him to actually get up and approach him? He was surprised the man was still as coherent as he was, let alone standing. When he glanced up the woman was giving him that same pointed stare. He waved her off. "Don't worry, I'll call him a cab," he assured her. She gave a satisfied huff, at least that's what he pretended it to be, before retreating back behind the bar.

Even within the depths of his coat pocket, John could clearly hear when the phone began to buzz once more. Continuously. Whoever was trying to get into contact with the man was apparently desperate. Fingers tapped against the counter top for a few moments before, after perhaps the tenth buzz, he had made up his mind. He fished the phone out of his pocket and swiped to answer.

Locked. Not overly surprising considering what little he knew of the man. As the thing continued to vibrate in his palm his resolve only strengthened. If one word could describe John Silver, it was stubborn. _Anniversary..._ Randomly he had thought back to the man's vague answer. Whatever anniversary it was, it was important. Especially if it could derail the man in such a way. Not really expecting it to work, John punched in the four number digits that made up today's date.

12 06

The background screen appeared and not even a second had passed before a text alert flashed at the top. Any possible guilt from invading the man's privacy disappeared as he tapped the notification and brought up an impressive stack of unanswered texts. Most from someone named "Miranda". He said he wasn't married.. Was this an ex wife or girlfriend? Whatever her place in Flit's life her concern was obvious.

2pm _where are you?_  
2:36pm _we were supposed to meet up...r you okay?_  
3:45pm _you're worrying me..._  
5:01pm _pls answer me. I know today is tough..._

And from that point onward the texts only became more urgent and clipped. Just as he was reading the most recent text, ordering him to answer the "fucking phone", another alert came in.

9pm _pls just tell me you're alright_

 _There_ it was, the guilt. Not for going through his phone, but for keeping the man occupied and encouraging his drinking when someone was so concerned about him. And apparently had been all day. Without much thinking he sent a reply.

9:02pm _don't worry, he's safe_

Briefly an ellipses popped up to show that she was texting back. However, it vanished and reappeared several times before the response actually came through.

9:07pm _who is this?_  
9:08pm _recent acquaintance. if you give an address I'll call him a cab_

A couple of moments passed before this Miranda got over her uncertainty and texted him the address. Swiftly he wrote it down at the edge of his napkin before slipping the phone back into the man's jacket pocket. He could have simply asked Flint where he lived. However, based on the fact that he hadn't even offered up his name, he was certain that effort would have been a futile one. And as he watched the man now making his way back over to the bar, he wasn't even certain if he could remember where he lived at this point. He looked absolutely exhausted and was unsteady on his feet. It was as if the evening of shots and whatever else he had drank had suddenly caught up to him.

John swallowed and gave Eleanor an almost pleading look. "Wish me luck..." he muttered towards her. He only received a snort in return. By the time Flint had finally managed to make it back to the bar John had paid both their tabs and was handing the man his jacket. "Come on, I'm taking you home."

Green eyes squinted at him but the man donned his coat without any argument. John didn't tease him for it. After all he looked like he was about ready to pass out, and he'd much rather he do it on the couch than the hard ground. Whatever awaited him at the end of the taxi ride, one thing was certain: Tomorrow morning the man's head would be splitting open.

John hailed a taxi with surprising ease considering the late hour and cold December weather. He had never had much in the way of luck, but when it did rear its head it did so at the most opportune time. John waited for the redhead to slide into the yellow cab first before following suit and handing the driver the napkin he had jotted the address down on. It was only a few blocks from here, luckily, so the fair wouldn't be too bad. He doubted the man would be willing to pay him back, if he even remembered tonight at all.

When John glanced over at him Flint had settled back into the seat, his head leaning back and his eyes closed. If it wasn't for the thumb that intermittently rotated the plain silver ring on his finger, he would have thought he was asleep. The man didn't ask how he knew where they were going. Then again, John wasn't sure if the man simply didn't care or was merely too drunk to actually realize what was going on. After all, after seven shots John would have been face down on the ground.

Minutes later they were at their destination. Well, Flint's anyways. John helped the man lean against the railing to a home that could only be described as "impressive". Tall yet narrow as they were quite far within the city, and with a design that was only fitting of a neighborhood that even he could clearly see was upper-class. John spent two minutes searching for a doorbell -hey, he had been drinking too- before settling on knocking. Just as men did in ye olden days. Mere moments passed before the door opened with who he could only assume was Miranda standing behind it.

She was quite the beautiful women. Deep hazelnut eyes stared between the two of them before finally resting on Flint. The deep color matched her hair which had been pulled up into a messy bun. "For god's sake, James," the woman clipped as she stepped forward to cup his face in her hands.

 _James._ So that was his name.

James, his eyes barely slit open, tried to shrug her off. "I'm fine..." he mumbled.

This had only earned him an eye roll and John couldn't help the smirk that pulled at his lips. Good, so the stubborn man had someone else in his life that could see through his bullshit. He had barely finished his thought when the woman turned to him. Slight unease remained in her expression as she extended her hand. "I don't believe I caught your name," she stated.

"John Silver," he offered with a winning smile as he stepped forward to grasp her hand. "I play at the bar."

Miranda's lips pursed. "He told me he'd stopped drinking."

John immediately faltered and fought to keep his expression even. _Oh._ "He usually doesn't drink that much," he assured her, gesturing to the still form that leaned against the railing. "It was probably my fault, actually. I took some shots with him." He scratched his short beard almost apologetically.

She stared at him for a few moments before finally offering a nod. Apparently accepting his excuse and forgiving him of any slight. "Thank you for bringing him home."

John nodded. "Goodnight." He didn't waste any more time before taking his leave. By the time he was seated back in the cab Miranda was coaxing an unsteady Flint -James, up from his spot against the metal banister and back into the house. The moment the front door shut he was satisfied and leaned forward to give the driver his own address. As he rested back he let his own eyes fall shut. He was exhausted, and was looking forward to going home and crawling back into bed. His guitar was back at Nassau's, but he could deal with that in the morning. If Muldoon didn't take it home Eleanor would ensure it stayed safe. So instead he allowed his mind to wander and that small, genuine smile to grace his lips.

Finally he had been able to meet Flint. _James._ He hadn't expected such a gentlemanly name. Then again, the man had never been what he expected. He could only hope that when morning came James would at least remember that they had spoken. And maybe that occurrence would find itself repeating in the future.


	5. A Small Gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=j8iirs)  
>   
> 

James was currently sprawled out face down on the couch with a wastebasket comfortably within reach. He was still fully dressed from the night before, save for his shoes, and a blanket had been draped over his form at some point during the night. A pillow covered the back of his head to better shroud himself from the offensive daylight that streamed through the partially curtained windows. Miranda had been kind enough to let him sleep in but not enough to keep the windows completely covered. Not that he could blame her for wanting to carry out her own passive aggressive form of vigilante justice. He knew he had messed up, he did. Not just dodging her texts and phone calls, but actually standing her up for their lunch date. Yesterday, that anniversary... he just couldn't do it. He couldn't force himself to put on a brave face. While that day certainly had importance to Miranda as well, there was no doubt that to him it held much more meaning. What he had shared with Thomas had been its own entity entirely. Living, breathing, and beating with its own heart. Something that went beyond marital affection or even love. The man had been his liberator, his partner, his closest friend and his other half. Of course, even he understood that this did not excuse his behavior. He had been selfish. It seemed only fitting that he feel miserable now.

The man released a soft groan as he removed the pillow from its spot covering his head. Hands moved up to grip his temples in a futile attempt to push his skull back together as it was apparently splitting open. Just the light from the partially opened curtains was enough to elicit a hiss when he finally cracked his eyes open. "Fucking hell," he spat, shielding his face as he slowly blinked to adjust his eyes. Unfortunately even speaking was a unbearable mistake. The jarring sound of his own voice was enough to make his head throb with each insufferable beat of his heart. His pulse felt like a hammer striking rhythmically against his skull. He hadn't had a hangover this horrendous in months, and the inner turmoil his body was currently experiencing him reminded him why. A war was going on in his head and based on the way the back of his throat burned and his empty stomach ached, hinted that he had vomited quite a bit during the night.

"Finally awake?" a soft voice asked.

James merely groaned as he slowly rolled onto his side before sitting up. He slumped forward to rest an elbow on his knee, a hand moving up to comb his fingers through his hair. This time when he opened his eyes he did so slowly. Miranda was curled up in a chair in the corner by the window with a book lying open on her lap. She didn't meet his gaze, her eyes still scanning over the pages before her. To his great surprise she didn't seem angry. She should be.

_It's your fault._

James cleared his throat as gingerly as he could. Unfortunately the paining ache in his head mounted all the same. "Miranda, I-"

"I'll get you some tea." The book closed with a soft thud before the woman disappeared from the room. James sighed and scratched at the scruff that darkened the side of his face. Minutes later she returned and offered a tea cup into his unsteady hands. He took a careful sip. Orange and ginger with a hint of honey. Warm enough to sooth the ache in his body but not so hot as to scald his tongue. Miranda smiled warmly at him.

"I'm sorry," James tried again once he had swallowed down the mixture. This time he practically stumbled over the words, wanting to get them out before Miranda could interrupt him or leave again.

"I know..."

With a sigh the man shook his head before massaging his temple. "I don't know what came over me."

When he looked up again Miranda's lips were lightly pursed, her brow scrunched and concern clear in her hazelnut eyes. "I understand that yesterday was difficult for you," she said after a moment. She spoke slowly, as if measuring her words. "I do. I understand that sometimes you need to be left alone. And that's okay, James. It is. Just.... _please_." This time her voice gave a noticeable crack and her hands were clasped as the often were when she was upset. "Please, just let me know that you're alright when you need to step away. I was so worried. If that man John hadn't had the sense to finally pick up our phone, I have no idea how you would have gotten home."

"I- Wait." James brow furrowed as he shook his head. "Who?"

"John," she repeated. She was now casting him quite the curious gaze. "John Silver. The man from the bar..?"

Oh, him. _Silver_. Suddenly the obscured puzzle that was the night before began to come into focus, if only gradually. He remembered whiskey. Lots and lots of whiskey. And then that kid was there. He recalled some idle chit chat but not much else... He didn't even remember how he had gotten home. Then another thought occurred to him.

"He answered my phone?"

"Yes." A chuckle. "At the very least _he_ had the manners to answer my texts."

"I have a password on my phone."

Miranda could only offer him a small shrug. "I don't know what to tell you," she answered simply. She then gestured for him to return to his tea. James tried to ignore his throbbing head and protesting belly and took another long sip. At the very least it would help with his hangover. Eventually.

"I am sorry..." he repeated lowly. Hopefully when Miranda gazed down at him next she could discern the regret that weighed heavily on his features.

"It's alright.." she assured him softly. She bent down to place a kiss on his cheek, her hand giving his free one a reassuring squeeze. "I need to go to work," she then said. "Are you going to be alright?"

_It's your fault. You drove her away._

James could already feel the loss of sensation in his fingertips at her words, at the panic they elicited. No. No, he didn't want to be alone right now. Despite the thoughts that began to swarm in his mind he swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded. His face was a perfect, practiced mask as he assured her that he could manage things from here. Deep brown eyes caught his gaze, searching briefly, but eventually she offered a nod. Whether or not she had been able to see through his lie this time was a mystery. Regardless, within minutes she had packed up her belongings for the day, given him another kiss on his forehead, and left.

James remained at his place on the couch. It felt as thought his entire body were made of lead. He couldn't move. Couldn't concentrate on anything but the way his heart pounded and his rib cage tightened around him like a vice. How he felt so very far away from the room laid out before him. Green eyes closed and he released an unsteady breath. In and out... In and out. Just like Mr. Scott had said. He swallowed hard, reveling in the faint taste of honey that remained on his tongue as he attempted to shift his thoughts to something else. Something concrete. The way his DSLR camera felt in his hands, the sights he saw through the lens. The scent of fresh air and the warmth of sunlight on his skin. The man from the bar... His eyebrows knit together slightly as his mind unexpectedly switched gears in such away. However, he didn't push the strangely foreign thoughts away. Instead he allowed himself to remember the soft smile that curled at the edge of the man's mouth. The way his eyes seemed to capture the light of the room, the dark ringlets that fell just past his shoulders. The lilt of his laugh.

To his great relief the attack began to dissipate after a few minutes. Once his heart had returned to a steady enough of a rhythm he released an even breath through his nose. Though the panic had faded, it had unfortunately given way to something else: Unease. He had no business thinking about another man. Not about anyone in such a way.

_You don't deserve it._

James squeezed his eyes shut to keep himself from spiraling right back into another wave of anxiety. Everything was fine. It didn't mean anything. Not a thing.

* * *

 

Two days later James decided to stop into a small coffee shop. He had spent the better portion of the morning and afternoon wandering through the city. No plan, no route, just allowing the lens of his camera to guide his footsteps. It was crisp outside, it was the middle of winter after all, but the sharp cut of the cold air actually helped him feel more grounded. More _present_. And after the past few days he was in dire need of it. Fortunately, he seemed to have been able to slip back into his usual rhythm despite the huge step backward the other night. After that hangover he was certain he wouldn't be able to stomach much alcohol for quite a while.

The door offered a soft clinking sound as he entered the small shop. His thumb turned the ring on his finger as he approached the counter and placed his order with the barista. A plain black coffee without sugar or cream. Nothing special. The request resulted in a brief glance of disbelief but he didn't pay it much mind. He had always been one of those strange individuals that enjoyed coffee just as it was. Brewed black with a sharp edge. Mere moments passed before the coffee was handed to him. He accepted the plain white ceramic mug, set some bills and coins atop the counter, and offered a quiet "Thanks" before shuffling off to find a seat. He settled on a small table beside the window. One with only a single chair.

James sat back with a contented sigh. The coffee warmed his belly and his bones and allowed his mind to slip into a state of ease. Nonchalantly he grasped his camera from where it had been hanging around his neck and began to flip through the photos. After hours of walking the streets he had used up all the space on his SD card. He had captured a myriad of scenes, just as always. A few decrepit buildings here, a cluttered skyline there, and even a few shots from the edge of the bay. Architecture had become his favorite scenes to capture from the start. Both firm and solid from the cement and steel, but still strangely ever changing.

"James..?"

The man didn't look up from his camera. It wasn't until he felt someone beside him that he realized whoever it was had been talking to him. When he finally glanced up his breath stilled in his chest. The guitarist from the bar stood before him, that slight smirk set on his lips and an eyebrow piqued in curiosity. This time, however, he held a mug of coffee instead a guitar or shot of whiskey. He seemed strangely out of place here. Outside of the bar, that is. The man was wearing a cable knit sweater, black boots rising over the edge of his jeans, and that mop of black curls had been drawn up into a messy bun. If wasn't until he spoke again, this time his tone a bit hesitant, that James realized he was staring. And not only that, but he hadn't said anything in return.

"It is.. James, right?" the man asked cautiously.

James had to tell his brain to cooperate before he could offer a nod. "Um, yeah.. John?" he then clarified the man's own name. Silver - _John_ , smiled.

"So you _do_ remember a little from the other night." John didn't ask for permission to join him before loudly scraping a nearby chair over to the small table and sitting down with a huff. Just as he had always done while playing at the bar, his left leg was slightly extended. James was about to speak, though he had no idea what words were going to come flying out, but he interjected. "I must say, I've never seen a man vomit on the hedges like that."

James scowled. "I did not."

A laugh. "You're right, you didn't. Was waiting for it, though." John smiled impishly as he took a long drink of his own coffee. A light caramel color with wisps of white from cream that hadn't been stirred in. "So, how did your hangover treat you?"

James' thumb tapped against the edge of his camera as he attempted to ignore the way his muscles were tensing. He hadn't expected to run into him. Not today, not outside of the bar; not in a city of this size. And that sense of unease that accompanied the unexpected only caused nervous energy to move underneath his skin like static.

Instead of answering his question he stated something that had been bothering him the past couple days. "You broke into my phone."

John smirk widened over the lip of is cup as he took another sip. "No," he corrected gently. "I unlocked your phone." The lack of surprise or even guilt that the man conveyed caused James to grow slightly annoyed. So his first impression had been correct. A cocky and entitled man-child. When John inevitably took notice of his displeased expression he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Look, I'm sorry. Your phone was blowing up.. In my defense, I was worried it could be an emergency."

James simply huffed. He supposed the man did have a point, if only barely. Fingers tapped against the table as he returned to his own beverage. John seemed to have little to no interest in leaving, and instead seemed perfectly content on staring him down with that stupid smile. After a full minute that seemed to last an eternity, James finally felt the need to speak. If only to break the uncomfortable silence.

James cleared his throat. "Miranda wanted to say 'thank you'. For making sure I got home." He couldn't help the way he mumbled that last part. Miranda hadn't spoken of that night since. Even so, he was exceptionally embarrassed that he had to be carted home by someone who was more or less a complete stranger.

And there it was again, that genuine smile creeping over the brunette's face. "Miranda does?" he clarified.

"Mhm."

A soft chuckle. "Well, you can tell _Miranda_ it was no trouble at all. Though, I do think you owe me." Green eyes hardened and John raised his hand disarmingly. "Not like that," he assured him. "Not even for the other night. Like I said, it was my pleasure, truly. I doubt you'd like me very much if I let you pass out drunk in the gutter."

James could tell he'd regret his words before they even left his mouth. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure how much you remember of our discussion that night, but you had told me that you were a photographer. Based on the Nikon hanging around your neck, I assume you had been truthful." James didn't like the way the man was grinning at him now. He felt that familiar anxiety clawing underneath his skin and he spun his ring a bit faster, fidgeting. "Can I see?"

An eyebrow arched. "What?"

"Can I see some of your work? You've heard me play every Thursday night for the past several months... It seems only fair."

James' mouth pressed into a firm line. That tightness in his chest was unmistakable, but shockingly enough, the gentle curve of the man's persisting smile seemed to keep it at bay. Even so he hesitated. He hadn't shown his work to anyone before. Not even Miranda knew that he had taken up photography. Not that it was a huge secret, he just didn't see it as something worth mentioning. Despite himself James found his muscles moving of their own accord. He lifted the strap from around his neck before handing the camera across the table.

John grasped it with eager hands, his thumb flicking the camera on before quickly finding the button necessary to go through the photos. James watched, intrigued, as the man's face seemed to transform as he looked through the unedited shots. The curl at the edge of John's mouth only grew, his lips parting slightly to flash a view of pearly white teeth. The blue of his eyes seemed even more brilliant this close. A complex mixture of warm sky blue and hardened steel. James forced himself to turn his gaze out the window before John could glance up and catch him staring. Again.

_You don't deserve to look at someone that way._

"James, these are... exceptional."

James couldn't ignore the way the man said his name caused his heart to stutter in his chest.

_It's your fault._

"Really," John assured him, looking up to grin at him. "These are amazing. And they haven't even been altered?" Instead of pointing of the obvious impossibility of editing photos on the actual camera, he bit his tongue and shook his head. John's thumb continued to tab the arrow button as he moved through more photos. "These buildings are beautiful... Do you ever photograph people?" he eventually asked. He flipped the camera off before carefully handing it back to him.

Once again James shook his head. "I don't care much for people."

"Yes, I... Noticed that," John chuckled. He took another sip of his coffee, which surely had grown cold by now, before stating something that caught him off guard. "I have a gig at the bar tonight. You should come."

James swallowed hard. "It's Sunday," he said, as if somehow this was all the explanation he needed. He went to the bar on Thursdays. Always on Thursdays. Only on Thursdays. That was the routine, the schedule he had stuck to, for several months now.

John nodded. "I know." Something in his eyes had changed. He was staring at him with a calm yet calculating gaze. It likened to the way Miranda sometimes looked at him, searching his face for some crack in his practiced mask. So that she could strike at just the right spot to make it fall apart completely. "Come on," he said, this time his tone gentle and soothing. "It'll be fun."

Once more James could feel the cold numbness creeping up from his fingertips. Still he sought to steel his expression. Surely this would only end badly. He had stuck to this routine for a reason. Granted, the majority of that reason was because strict schedules provided comfort. They kept him calm and the destructive thoughts at bay. Surely he couldn't... But maybe he could. Miranda would tell him to go. So would Gates. Would likely say that some "actual socializing" would be good for him. That while having a routine may have been beneficial during his initial recovery after Thomas' death, it was likely time for him to begin reaching beyond his comfort zone. To gradually begin lowering the walls he had so diligently built around himself.

_You don't deserve it._

Despite the minutes that were surely ticking by in silence, John made no apparent move to hurry him to an answer. Instead he drank his coffee and looked at him with this gentle, oddly understanding gaze.

"At Nassau's?" James eventually asked. His mouth felt unbearably dry and his tongue slid out to wet his lips. John gave a single nod. "What time?"

"Eight," John replied with a slight tilt of his head. As he finally stood from the table he offered that smile that made James' skin practically buzz. When he winked he was certain his knees would have buckled had he been standing. "See you then."

James felt the tension in his jaw as he watched the man's retreat. His whole body felt locked in place and his mind was a torrent of thoughts and nervous energy. Green eyes closed as he reached up to scratch the scruff on his chin. With a firm exhale he shook his head.

This was definitely a terrible idea.


	6. Let Me be an Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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This was a mistake.

Not just accepting John's flippant request for him to return to the bar to see him perform tonight. No, it could never be so simple as that. It was everything. Every interaction he had experienced with the musician, from that very first night in the bar when he had finally made eye contact, was a grave mistake. By allowing his gaze to linger he had entered into something dangerous. Something he had denied himself since Thomas' untimely passing. The other night he had finally accepted the shot of whiskey and proceeded to drink himself under the table in an attempt to escape his sorrows surrounding the significance of that day. In doing so he had encouraged the man's advances, whatever they or the motivations behind them were, and proceeded to spend the night doing shots with him. And he had allowed it to go even further than that. Not just speaking to him again in the coffee shop, but actually sharing with him the photos he had taken just a few hours prior. He had revealed to this stranger a part of himself he had yet to share with anyone else, even Miranda. It was all such an irreparable mistake.

And by god, if it wasn't perhaps the best mistake he had made in a long time.

James had so easily forgotten what it was like to _want_. To not just desire something without fear of the repercussions, but in spite of them. To long for something that went beyond the sharp bite of his next drink or the drag of a cigarette. To crave something that didn't end in a binge and a days-long recovery in bed. He had forgotten what it was like to genuinely want... someone. Not even in a lewd or sexual way, but to simply spend time in the company of another. He loved Miranda, he did. He appreciated her company and he missed her constant presence. But despite this he had found himself drifting these past few months. While their weekly lunches always provided a shred of reprieve from the anger and gnawing guilt of the day, he felt as though he were walking on glass when he was around her. He no longer felt the joy he once did when Thomas was alive. That drive for closeness that could be likened to the pull of a strong magnet. Instead he felt as though he were simply being checked up on and looked after. Their lunches were not a time to catch up, share a joke and laugh. They were for Miranda's sake so that she could ensure that he was doing alright. Or at the very least, not drinking himself to an early grave. And before he had realized it, it was his Thursday evenings spent at the tavern that had captured his attention and eagerness every week.

This man had so effortlessly skirted passed his defenses and it baffled James to no end. Their interactions had been few and far between, but even so John had managed to knock down another barrier each time he opened that mouth of his. Had it been anyone else sending him drinks once a week like some persistent little shit, he would have barked at them to get lost. Had anyone else broken into his phone, _and texted with Miranda no less_ , he would have scraped his knuckles from punching their face in for such a gross invasion of privacy. He had long known that his temper was just as fiery as his hair. Even Thomas had told him as much. Yet he seemed unable to gaze at this man with nothing but calm intrigue. Instead of becoming agitated by John's persistent advances he simply wondered what game he could possibly be playing at, sending him the same shot of whiskey once a week but without offering up another word. Just lingering glances and small smiles. And he had played along with this game of cat and mouse, not just from boredom but genuine intrigue. Instead of being enraged by his gall to break into his phone, he was merely curious as to how he had figured out his password based on one gruff word he had spoken to him. How he had done it from claimed concern. How he had paid for a cab to make sure he got home in one piece, as if they had been friends all along instead of strangers trading glances.

John had found a way to make him say _yes_ when he had spent the past year saying "no". No to new opportunities, to change, to even the caring efforts of his closest friends. He made him want to _try_.

As James paced the main room of the home he had shared with Thomas and Miranda, the home that was now his, his heart fluttered. Unfortunately, it was no longer from warmth or excitement, but from that surge of anxiety he had become so accustomed to as of late. He had been walking back and forth across the room for the better part of an hour now. Briefly he had considered breaking his plans and not going. Yet for some reason he still couldn't quite explain, just the consideration of not seeing John caused another bout of nervous energy to surge within him. This time stronger than the last. His disdain at breaking plans with someone who was more or less a stranger was greater than his fear of going. Of breaking his own hard-fought routine; one that had more or less kept the broken pieces of his psych from shattering to the wind.

_You don't deserve it._

Green eyes twisted shut as James scrubbed his palms over his face. A futile effort if there ever was one to drive the worrisome thoughts from his mind. He was going. It would be good for him. Miranda would want him to go, Thomas would... But more than that, _he_ wanted to. He wanted to see John again, to hear the melody of his guitar lilt through the room in a way that could quiet even the voices of guilt and rage within his own mind. The man released a steady breath before glancing at the clock. It was only five in the afternoon. While he wasn't in the least bit hungry, in fact he felt downright nauseous, he forced himself to warm a bowl of stew before retreating to the nook beside his bedroom. He spent the next few hours lounging at his desk, taking small bites of lukewarm chicken and creamy broth as he sifted through and edited the photos of the day's excursion. As he peered over the old decrepit buildings and the landscapes he had captured, John's earlier words returned to him.

_"Do you ever photograph people?"_

In all honesty the thought had never really occurred to him. While it was true what he had said in response, that in general he didn't hold people in a decent light, he supposed the true reason went deeper than that. People were... different. Difficult. He felt no desire to try and capture the emotions conveyed in their eyes, in the slight twist of their expression or the way they carried themselves. Not when he still experienced such difficulty processing or even acknowledging the range of emotions that boiled beneath the surface of his own mind. Architecture was stagnant. Simple. Nature was life, yes, but beautiful in its own unique simplicity. It was living and breathing, yet separate. It made no attempt to interact the way people often did. It was quiet, peaceful.

As James worked his eyes continued to shift towards the clock that was set against the wall. Eventually the minutes finally began to tick by into hours. By seven o' clock he finally permitted himself to step away from the desk and get ready. Again that nervousness was bubbling up within him, causing his chest to tighten uncomfortably and his breath to catch in his throat. He slipped half of an Ativan tablet beneath his tongue before chasing it down with a generous sip of water. He closed his eyes, released a low breath, and tugged a simple black button-up shirt around his shoulders.

_You're fine._

However, it was not the repetition of that simple mantra that calmed him. Rather, it wasn't until his thoughts drifted towards John that his heart began to slow and his breaths returned to a peaceful, steady rhythm. As before James ignored the potential complications of this and finished getting ready. By seven thirty he was pulling his coat around his shoulders and heading out the door, keys and cell phone in his pocket. As usual he chose to walk down to the pub. It was only a few blocks away, and the crisp evening air was always beneficial towards stilling his thoughts. Tonight was no exception. When the crisp air kissed the exposed skin of his face and hands he felt grounded. He listened to the sound of his shoes beating against the sidewalk, the clips of words from passersby, and distant sound of traffic. Yet the sense of peace and clarity he had grasped was a fragile one at best, and the moment he stepped into the bar it dissipated with the similar shock of shattering glass.

There was a reason why he always came to the bar on a Thursday night. It may have been a Sunday evening, but it was still the weekend and was therefore bustling with activity. In fact the place was outright packed. There was no room at the counter, the bar was several people deep, and all the tables were taken. The air was filled with boisterous laughter and chatter; or rather, shouting so that each person in a given group could hear each other above the persistent throng of noise. James swallowed down the lump in his throat before forcing his legs to move forward. He could do this. He _wanted_ to. Even so he found himself restless, his thumb turning the ring on his forefinger as his green eyes scanned the room for John. Despite the crowd it didn't take too long to spot that distinctive mop of black curls. He stood in the corner by the "stage" and was surrounded by the group he usually played with. The redheaded singer was messing around with the equipment while the other three appeared to be good-naturally chatting away. As James inched closer, his jaw clenching as he sought to block out the clamoring noise and the bodies that pressed a bit too close, John seemed to have felt his gaze. The man turned and that white smile flashed across his face as he waved him closer. He had been searching for a free space to stand alongside the wall. Preferably by the fire exit just in case this all became too much, but the man's warm demeanor immediately had him moving forward instead.

The moment he was within reach John clapped him on the shoulder. "You came!" he exclaimed. His apparent disbelief caused a slight frown to pull at the corner of James' mouth, yet it went unnoticed as the man reached into his pocket to check the time on his phone. "And.. right on time, too."

Again James fidgeted. "You said eight o' clock." Despite the gruff tone of voice he could feel the flush of embarrassment, and he was suddenly grateful for the high collar on his coat that hid the redness that was surely coloring his neck.

John only grinned. "That I did." He jerked his head toward the small group behind him before that hand gripped his coat sleeve and coaxed him forward. "Guys," he called out, effectively interrupting whatever conversation they were having. "This is my friend, James."

James could feel the corner of his mouth twitch at the word. Whether it had been an effort towards forming a smile or a frown, he wasn't certain. All that captured his focus at the moment was the several sets of eyes that shifted over to him, seemingly all at once. The redhead offered a snort while the bald, bearded man cast him a smirk. "Hey," he said, extending his hand. James couldn't feel his fingers as he extended his own hand and it was grasped in a firm handshake. His mouth felt dry and he could only nod politely in response.

"This is my best mate, Muldoon," John explained with a tilt of his chin. "That one there is Anne Bonny, and that's Logan."

"Well fuck you too, Silver."

James turned towards the strangely unaggressive voice only to see a man's broad neck and shoulders. Eyes shifted upward to get a better look at what could almost be described as a giant. He was no short man himself standing at nearly six feet, yet this man was easily six or so inches taller. He was followed by another man that was closer to his own height; one with golden blonde hair and blue eyes. He didn't miss the fact that their fingers were intertwined. James' thoughts were torn away from the shock at the public display of affection when Silver laughed.

"Billy! Thought you weren't able to make it!" The giant muttered something about switching shifts before James once again felt John's hand, this time on his shoulder. "May I introduce you to Billy Manderly. Don't worry, despite his size he's quite harmless. This is his boyfriend, and our group's newest addition, Ben Gunn."

The smaller blonde offered a kind smile while Billy reached out to shake his hand. "You must be James." There was no hint of a smile on his face. Rather his lips were pressed into a thin line and his gray eyes held nothing but distrust. Ironically, this must be how people felt when meeting _him._

Immediately James could feel the bitter nervousness in his mouth and he swallowed it back. His tongue slid out to wet his lips as he tried to quell the mess of thoughts roaring through his mind. He had come to see John, to hear him play. Not on any level had he anticipated meeting anyone new, let alone five different people within the span of mere minutes. All of whom seemed to be quite close with John. Not to mention that based on Billy's words the man had mentioned him before in conversation. This alone was enough to set his heart pounding and his eyes searching for the exit. Yet here was John, fingers still clutching the fabric of his coat sleeve as if he had long predicted that he would have the sudden urge to bolt. And what's more, that touch kept him steady, not unlike an anchor.

"A pleasure," James finally managed. It was not lost on him that these were the first words he had uttered since he had arrived. The way his voice almost cracked surely alerted John to this as well, for a slight smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Come on, Silver, we should probably start." Muldoon was twirling a drum stick between his fingers as he spoke. "They're not going anywhere."

John almost huffed as he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah..." He turned slightly towards James then and he could feel the way those fingers tightened on his arm. His face appeared almost unguarded, his eyes searching. "Alright?" he asked quietly. The way he spoke hinted that he was actually inquiring as to if he would be staying.

Again James forced passed the tightness in his throat before nodding. "Of course.."

John smiled that small, genuine smile before giving his arm a final squeeze. The moment he withdrew James was once again overcome by the overbearing noise and how crowded the place was. Even so, he stayed put. It was as if his legs had turned to lead and were cemented to the floor. Yet as he watched John move across the slightly raised platform and take up his guitar, his panic began to abate, if only just. The microphone emitted a sharp yet brief tone as it was plugged in and immediately the chatter that surrounded them dropped a noticeable octave. And then the music started. The song began with the slow soothing strings of John's acoustic guitar, the notes almost flowing from his fingertips with an ease that could only come from years of practice and dedication. Eventually the bass joined in, followed by Muldoon's drums and the cut of the singer's voice. To his pleasant surprise, it seemed that John would be lending his own vocal cords to the song this time. He had heard him sing only once or twice before, but even from those few glimpses he could appreciate his skill. Now more so than ever. The lilt of his voice was just as captivating as the lyrics he sang.

 _"Low and behold_  
_You are my anchor_  
_Hold this ship steady in these rough waters_  
_My dear_  
_Hold me tight, hold me close_  
_So that when we finally fall_  
_We may sink into those depths together"_

As James listened to the words he found himself falling away from the chaos that surrounded him until it became little more than a muted drone. Instead, he allowed his focus to be held by nothing but that silken voice and his skill with the instrument. He was so locked on the movements of his fingers and the way his lips curled around each word, that it wasn't until the song came to a close that James realized John was staring at him. The moment their gaze met that smile graced his lips. He hardly even noticed when the band eased into their next song. At least not until their eye contact was eventually broken. The songs that played in succession were good, very good. However, they didn't quite enrapture him like the first one had. Perhaps it was that John had once again retreated to the back and allowed the lead singer -Anne, was it?-  full use of the microphone. Her voice was hard and sharp, distinctly different from John's own unique style. Yet the way he plucked at the cords of his guitar had a certain way of softening her voice until it became a gentle timbre.

James found it astonishingly easy to give himself over to the music. He wasn't sure how many songs they had belted out before their last one came to a close with a roaring finish. The bar's younger patrons let out a chorus of cheers, many of them raising their drinks in a figurative toast to celebrate their set. The bassist, Logan if he remembered correctly, hopped off the small platform to wrap his arms around a busty blonde and pull her close for a kiss. Muldoon was patting Anne on the back while Silver slid his guitar back into its case. Billy was the first to move forward to congratulate the group on their fantastic performance.

John smirked, his lips moving though James couldn't quite make out what was being said. Now that the music had stopped the tavern was once again full of boisterous laughter and drunken chatter. And it hit him all at once. The noise, the bodies of strangers pushing against him, the overwhelming heat. It seemed to suffocate him. James released a low breath as his eyes squeezed shut.

_Not now. Please, not now._

James had spent the entire evening waiting for the inevitable panic to hit him. For his fingers to go numb as his heart beat wildly, waiting for the terror that would surely attempt to crush his chest like a boa constrictor. Yet the moment he laid eyes on John he had felt unusually at ease. At least up until now. Now John seemed too far away and his attention was elsewhere.

_It was your fault._

Eventually John turned his attention away from Billy and towards his own retreating figure. James had begun to take several steps back into the crowd, his hands clenched into tight fists within his coat pockets as his eyes scanned for a possible path towards the exit. He could feel John's gaze despite the weight bearing down on his chest and he looked up towards him, watched as his lips moved silently. His brows were knit in that same expression he had seen on Miranda's face so many times. Yet it wasn't until that hand gripped his shoulder that James realized John was right in front of him. James swallowed down the taste of bile and shame. His head dipped low as he fought hard to catch his breath, desperate to not capture the attention of anyone else with his apparent struggle. The hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze and he instinctively reached up to cover it with his own. 

When John spoke next he could actually hear the words through the thick fog that shrouded his mind. "I need to step out for a smoke." That hand tugged on his coat and before he knew it, John was guiding him through the throng of people before slipping out the emergency exit.

The cold night air hit James' face and immediately he drew in a deep breath. The fingers clutching his arm had disappeared and James reached up to pull at the scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. He tore free the buttons of his coat next. Despite the near freezing temperatures, he still felt _too hot_. Too confined, restrained... Buried. Despite the adjustments, the desperate clawing, his breath still escaped him. Knuckles scraped against the cold brick of the building as he leaned against the wall. The moment he heard that strange noise, the one that could only be described as static, he resigned. This was too much. This was a mistake. He had to go. He had to -

"James..!"

The voice interrupted the sound of his own footsteps beating against the pavement. Despite his better judgement he stopped. He turned, felt the hands on his arms and shoulders once more. Felt the brick wall against his back. Felt something other than the cruel weight of the world crushing down around him.

"Do you have something with you? Any medicine?"

James could just barely hear him above the disorienting thrum of static. That odd and unsettling noise that always accompanied the loss of sensation in his face and fingertips. The sound that made his head feel as though it were surrounded by rushing water, that made him worry that he was about to pass out. 

"James..?"

James swallowed, his breaths coming in short and labored gasps, before shaking his head. Despite his best efforts he couldn't force himself to voice that one, simple word.

"James, look at me." Those hands were now cradling his face. Strong, warm, steady. When James finally dared to raise his head, John's face was mere inches from his own. "Breathe," the man reminded him.

James tried. Truly he did, yet he could only offer another shake of his head. "No -I can't. I can't do this..! I need to-"

"Breathe," John repeated. This time he was able to discern the firmness of his tone. The resolve that he would not allow him to run away.

James swallowed down the lump in his throat as he nodded. Fingers gripped almost desperately at John's wrist as he fought to take in a slow, single breath. Still, it was unsteady at best.

"Tell me something you can smell."

James shook his head. "Wha--?"

"Just humor me," John assured him. His hands continued to cup the side of his face, anchoring him to where he currently was.

James closed his eyes. The desperation to get away was still clawing at the edge of his mind, but he would at least try to do as he asked. "Mint..." he answered after a moment and with an wavering voice. John must have been drinking tea recently.

"Good... Now, two things you can see."

James couldn't stop the snort that left his mouth. "An idiot," he snapped.

Despite the harsh words John only chuckled. "Alright," he resigned. "One more thing."

Jame's forced his eyes open, taking in sight of the man that stood so close before him. "Blue eyes.." he murmured.

The man nodded, a soft smile teasing at the edge of his lips. "Three things you can hear."

"Uhm-" James struggled to take another breath. As he did so his fingers loosened their trembling grip on John's wrist, if only just. "The traffic, l-laughter... Your voice."

John's thumb ghosted over his cheek as he stepped closer. "Good," he encouraged him softly. "Lastly, four things you can feel."

After a moment James managed another deep breath. His tongue reached out to wet his lips before he could answer. "Your hands on my cheek... The warmth of your skin." Green eyes closed once more as he tried to force his mind to concentrate on the task. Even now he could feel the way his breaths were beginning to take up a slower pace. "The brick against my back.. Your.. forehead against mine." John's temple had come to press against his own with the lightest of touches, their breaths mingling as John's hand moved to gently support the back of his neck.

"There you go.." John murmured softly. He stayed where he was, provided the anchor James so desperately needed as he worked through the last of the panic attack. Finally he was able release a slow, steady exhale as the attack came to an end. As always that overwhelming shock of relief washed over him. It felt as though an unbearable weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Once again he could see clearly, could think. Could _breathe._ Yet the relief was short lived as it soon gave way to less appealing emotions: Embarrassment and shame. "You see? It passed," John soothed. "They always pass."

Finally the feeling had returned in James' fingertips, and he gave the man's wrist a gentle, appreciative squeeze. "Thank you," he eventually murmured, his words genuine. When he dared to glance up John was smiling.

"No problem.." The man waited a moment, as if making sure that the attack had actually passed, before withdrawing a few steps. "Now I really need a cigarette," he chuckled as he reached into his pocket. "Want one?"

"No, thank you..."

John shrugged. He popped a cigarette between his teeth and moved to light it, guarding the small flame against the winter wind with his hand. James noticed then that he had collected his scarf from wherever he had tossed it to the ground. The thick black scarf now laid draped across his shoulders. James released a heavy sigh before leaning back against the wall of the bar. Fingers combed through his hair, the man still trying to keep the flush of embarrassment at bay.

"How did you know...?" he eventually began to ask.

John puffed out a few rings of smoke before casting a faint smirk in his direction. "Used to get them all the time," he answered simply. He tilted his head a bit then as if silently arguing with himself. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't say that. Still get them, sometimes." He tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette before taking another drag.

James worried his lower lip between his teeth. His hands had returned to his pockets, both for warmth and to conceal the return of his nervous fidgeting. "Thank you," he said once more after a moment. "Truly."

Another chuckle. "Is this Miranda thanking me, or you?"

James couldn't help the short laugh that passed his lips. "Me," he assured him softly. Then he scratched the back of his neck almost sheepishly. He could still feel the traces of warmth from where John had cupped the back of his neck. "If you don't mind me asking," he began softly, treading carefully with his words, "How long have you... had them?"

John blew a trail of smoke up towards the sky. "A few years now," he answered simply. As if he didn't mind the personal question in the least. "You?"

"About a year..." James's jaw clenched slightly as he forced himself to continue. "I, um... Lost someone." It was the first time he had voiced the fact. At least, without being prompted to by Miranda or his therapist, Dr. Scott.

John nodded slowly. He was looking at him now with a soft gaze, those brilliant blue eyes warm yet calculating at the same time. There was no sympathy or pity in his expression, as James had witnessed so many times before from others. There was only the empathy that could come with genuine understanding. It was strange, but with John... He felt safe enough to talk about it. He _wanted_ to. To finally talk about what had happened.

"I was in a car accident," James continued after a moment. His thumb slowly rotated the ring on his finger as he spoke. "I had convinced my partner to go to an exhibit with me.. A drunk driver ran a red light and slammed right into his side of the car." By the time he had finished his voice was barely above a whisper. "As I was the one driving, I.. Always felt it was my fault that he died." Despite the difficulty he faced in finally voicing those words, once he had he felt strangely relieved.

"I'm sorry." Again, James caught no hint of pity in the man's tone, and when he glanced up his expression was genuine. "I was in an accident, too," he eventually offered. He dropped the cigarette to the ground before grinding it out with his beaten sneakers. "Though, that one actually was my fault. Was speeding up a back road when I lost control and ran into a tree." To his surprise the man actually laughed. However, even then he could see the trace of pain that darkened his eyes. "That's actually how I met Billy. He was, uh.. the EMT that had to cut through my leg. To get me out." James's confusion must have been apparent, for the man lifted his right leg and tapped the heel against the shin of his left. The movement created a sharp, hollow knocking noise that signaled the presence of a prosthetic.

James' lips pressed into a firm line and once again John simply chuckled. "See?" the guitarist asked after only a brief pause. "We're both a bit broken." Despite having just tossed one aside, he reached into his pocket to withdraw and light another cigarette.

"Is that why you first approached me?" James couldn't help but ask.

John smirked. "You catch on quick," he answered after another long puff. "You know what they say: Misery loves company." Then, "Is that why I kept catching you staring at me?" As John spoke he drew a bit closer, his thumbs tucked into the pocket of his jeans and the cigarette hanging loosely from his smirking lips.

The flush of heat James felt was unmistakable as John pressed into his space. Almost hesitantly he reached out to toy with the folds of his jacket. "I grew tired of staring at the counter.." The explanation was a weak one and he knew it, but he was all he could manage at the moment. Yet as he stared into those blue eyes he was overcome with the familiar pangs of guilt and unease.

_It's your fault._

James had to force out his next words. "I should go.." John's expression visibly faltered and he moved to step back, but not before James could catch his wrist. "I'll see around..?" he asked then, desperate to let the man know that this would not be their last encounter.

The features of John's face softened as he smiled. "Of course." Blue eyes then flicked away as he almost nervously scratched at the back of his head. "You... probably don't want my number, do you?"

James answered by reaching into his coat pocket and handing over his phone. A smirk pulled at his lips as he watched John unlock it with ease and began punching his number into his Contacts. All the while muttering under his breath that he should, "..get a new password no one knew." The man then passed him his own cell phone and James returned in kind.

"You're alright, yeah?" John asked once he returned the cell to his pocket. His eyebrow was arched, his gaze once again searching.

For the first time in a while, James felt a smile curling at his lips. He offered the man a simple nod in response. "I'll see you around," he repeated softly then. The last thing he saw as he left the alleyway was the soft orange glow of John's cigarette and his scarf that remained wrapped around his shoulders.


	7. A Few Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=21jcac1)

Fingers wandered up to pinch the shaft of the smoldering cigarette as blue eyes watched the man take his leave. Even after the figure had retreated around the corner John stayed put, listening to the sound of softening footsteps against the pavement until they gave way to the soundtrack of the city at night. The passing cars, the chatter of strangers echoing from a nearby parking garage, the combined music of the other restaurants and clubs that surrounded them. John exhaled deeply through his nose and watched the smoke trail from his nostrils up towards the sky.

If there was one prevailing emotion that overcame the mess of thoughts currently swarming his mind, it was guilt. While James had been a puzzle from the first night he saw him enter the bar, earlier today he had finally been able to read him, if only just. To be honest he previously had no idea why the man acted the way he did. Why he kept a strict schedule when it came to going to Nassau's. Why he sat at the same stool at the bar whenever possible, and ordered the same two drinks every time. Perhaps he was a businessman with such a cluttered schedule that he could only slip away to the bar during that small window. Maybe it was OCD. Or maybe he was a recovering alcoholic, and sticking to two lagers was a way of keeping himself from falling off the wagon completely. Maybe he was just odd.

Yet the moment he propositioned James to come see him play tonight, he had finally found that missing piece of the abstract puzzle that was the man. While he had begun to form a hunch throughout the duration of their run-in at the coffee shop, those two words he uttered had solidified it.

_It's Sunday._

The way James' face had blanched at the question, the twitch of his lip when he finally answered. He had anxiety. He hadn't been able to spot the telltale ticks when they had been at the tavern before. But now as he sat across from him in the daylight, not two feet separating them, he noticed them immediately. Those green eyes switched between nervous glances towards the side and pointed gazes as he carefully searched his expression. He could see the muscles that corded in his neck, the way his jaw clenched as he swallowed. The tongue that tentatively reached out to wet his lower lip as he thought. Being this close, he could make out the fast, strong drumming of his heart from the shallow dip between his collarbone.

The discomfort the man felt was palpable from even his side of the small table. While John was careful not to press him for a quick answer in any way, in fact he leaned back in his chair and gave the cup of coffee his full attention, he didn't back off either. He was overwhelmingly curious to see how the ginger would answer. The fact that he had not said "no" outright hinted strongly that he wished to go, if only on some level. But more than that, _he_ wanted him to come. While the man had been outright plastered during their last interaction, he had rather enjoyed getting to know him a little. Instead of stemming his curiosity, talking with him had only furthered his resolve to get to know him. To wriggle himself into his life before he could even realize what it was he had done. This was a specialty of his. Usually, he did it to perfect strangers and for entirely selfish reasons. That was actually how he had met Max. He had intended on seducing her, not in a sexual way of course, but rather with his wit, to meet his own ends. Instead, she had swiftly called him out on his bullshit and they had become inseparable ever since.

This situation with James, whatever it was, was entirely different. He had initially approached him out of bored curiosity, pandered after him from genuine interest, but now.. He felt drawn to him for reasons even he couldn't quite identify. The pull he now felt wasn't quite like anything he had experienced before. There was his persistent need to satisfy his own curiosity, of course. There was also lust; as good of a motivator as any. But more than that, he wanted to _know_ him. To understand him on the most intimate level, to figure out what makes him tick so that he could tweak the gears of his own mind until they were perfectly in sync. The man was clearly broken, perhaps just as much as he, but it was that which had captured him. He felt as though they were kindred spirits, in a way. They had only just met, and briefly, yet they already had one prominent thing in common: They each had their own practiced masks to wear. His a stern expression, his own a fake smile and almost sickening charisma. They each had their roles to play. Yet the moment they collided those hardened masks developed a noticeable crack.

It seemed as though they were each a ship lost out to sea, both in search of an anchor to hold them steady in torrid waters. And that was how he had come to write the group's latest song. The same one they had played at the start of the evening. The one he had begun writing on that crumpled napkin on the cab ride home. The one he so wanted James to hear. Perhaps if he heard it they would eventually come to a point where they could hold on to one another, keeping the other afloat not unlike a buoy. It was dangerous thinking, considering they had only just met.

John had been sinking back into those dark depths for several months now. And yet here was this man, this broken shell of a thing, and he sought to grab on to him to keep himself from drowning. It was a well known fact that John Silver must be in dire straits if he were actually reaching out for help. Only this time, he felt no desire to push the man beneath the waves in order to keep himself afloat. Rather, if he were to raise above the surface once more, he wanted to do it with James in tow or not at all. He wanted to save himself, yes, but he wanted to save James as well. Perhaps they could each be the salvation the other sought.

Again, these were very dangerous and misguided thoughts for one to have. Yet John had always been stupidly optimistic when it suited him.

Now, however, he felt little more than guilt at his own selfishness. Not necessarily for coaxing James into coming out tonight, despite the knowledge that doing so would likely cause a torrent of anxiety within the man. Not even did it raise from the panic attack he had indirectly caused. Instead, the unpleasant emotion stemmed from what he was feeling now. The warmth that persisted in his fingertips from where he had stroked the man's cheek and cradled the nape of his neck. The way his chest had fluttered when James had allowed him to draw close, to ground him. To try and help lead him through an attack so similar to the several he had faced himself. Even now his heart was thudding away in his chest from how good the close proximity had felt. How the man's breath tickled his face, still lightly smelling of black coffee. The fingers that gripped his wrists as James eventually heeded his words and began to come down. How the relief had made those usually piercing green eyes shine even in the darkened alley. How for the first time his expression was completely unguarded. And how breathtakingly handsome it was, so full of raw emotion without its harsh, concealing mask.

Not just that, but the pride he felt that James had been comfortable enough to open up to him. To share with him the event that had not only started his panic attacks, but was responsible for the man he now was. The moment those words left James' lips it all made sense. He had lost someone..

 _So. May I ask what has you in such a sourly mood this evening?_  
Anniversary.  
Aah, so you're married. My condolences.  
Not that kind of anniversary.

Immediately John had felt like an ass for his earlier words. What was that day the anniversary of? The death of his lost love? The start of their relationship? No matter the answer, his stomach had quickly lurched up into his throat. It had only felt right for him to return the gesture. To level with James about his own painful past, if only a portion of it. And so he had shared with him the loss of his left leg; something that was usually a revelation for a close friend. That or a third date. John wasn't quite sure what it was he may have expected in response. The conversation was one that always resulted in a downward glance and a look of pity or poorly masked discomfort. James did neither. Just as Eleanor had, he gazed upon just as he had before. As if nothing had changed; as if he saw him not as an invalid, but the complete man he had seen before.

The heavy thunk of the bar's side door was enough to pull John from his thoughts. The cigarette had long burned down to the filter and he dropped it now, grinding it against the pavement with the flat of his sneaker before turning to peer at the intruder. It was Billy. It was _always_ Billy.

"I'm fine," John chuckled before the man could even ask.  
  
"Your friend take off?"  
  
"Mhm." It wasn't until then that John reached up, meaning to brush a stray ringlet behind his ear, but instead noticing James' scarf that remained wrapped around his neck. He frowned. How had he forgotten to give it back? And how had James missed retrieving it when he had been looking right at him? No matter... It just gave them even more of a reason to see one another again. And what's more... Casually, John gathered the dark knit fabric before bringing it against his nose.

It smelled like him.

He couldn't place his finger on it, but it was a pleasant scent. Addictive. Like the scent of a book's many pages. Calm and comforting, and only causing him to yearn for more.

John didn't waste any more time before following the man back inside. By now Max and Jack had taken off from work and joined their group for the remainder of the evening, which they spent with drinks in hand and jokes and idle chatter on their lips. It was around eleven at night when John pulled eventually pulled away from the closely knit group. The activity had begun to wind down and he had finally found a moment to slip away. Again, he lazily toyed with the edge of the scarf between his fingertips. Within moments he had fished his cell phone from his pocket and flipped through his contacts for the most recently added number. _James._ Without really thinking he sent a quick text. Part of him was curious as to if the man had given him a fake number; a larger portion needed to know that he had made it home okay.

11:05 pm _didn't think to say it before, but_ _goodnight  
_ Only a few minutes had passed before John felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. He hadn't expected a response this soon, if at all. If James had taught him anything, it was that he was quite far from the sociable person. Yet as he peered down at the texts he couldn't stop the smile that pulled at his lips.  
  
11:12 pm _goodnight_  
11:15 pm _and thanks_  
11:18 pm _again_  
  
John had to force himself to return the phone to his pocket. But even as he did so, he was certain that he would be re-reading those short text messages late into the night.

 


	8. Moving Forward

The journey home had been a purposefully dilatory one. While James lived only a few blocks away from Nassau's, it took him roughly an hour or so to finally reach his front stoop. He had walked with a slow gate, his hands fidgeting within the warm confines of his coat pockets as he allowed his mind to wander over the events of the evening. Not in the obsessive, anxiety-ridden way he had done so many times as of late, but rather with a calm reflection. He had experienced a panic attack right in front of Silver. And despite the fact that it was one of the worst he had suffered in recent months, the man had not only gazed upon him with nothing but a calm understanding, but had actually managed to talk him through it. To his even greater surprise, he harbored no embarrassment despite the obvious display of weakness. John was still more or less a stranger, but as he had already seen him plastered drunk -and had to cart him home at the end of the night-, he doubted this was any more incriminating. Especially since the guitarist had confessed that he suffered from them as well.

_Low and behold  
You are my anchor_

But it was not just that. Though they had really only just met, any interaction he had with John was never so simple as _just that_. For the first time since his long-abandoned appointments with Dr. Scott, he had not uttered a word about Thomas or his death. Yet in front of John the words had so effortlessly tumbled from his mouth. As if those words had just been waiting for the chance to slip free from his iron-clad defenses. Then John had taken an unnecessary step further and confided in him his own past torments; that a car accident had taken his leg from him. And it was true what he had said: It seemed they were both a bit broken. Both burdened by a loss so keen and leaden, yet so distinctly different.

While the confession itself had effectively caught him off guard, the subject of it was far less surprising. While he couldn't place his finger on it, something about his leg had piqued his curiosity. The way the man so often sat while performing, always with that left leg outstretched as if it were paining him. The ever so slight shift when when he walked, the way he leaned against the counter to take any unnecessary weight off of it. Still, there was no reason for John to have divulged such intimate information. He had only done it to soften the blow of his own confession, to lift some of the weight from his own shoulders and even the score.

The keys jangled as James let himself into the apartment and returned his coat to the rack. Instinctively he reached up to unwrap his scarf only to remember that he had _accidentally_ left it with John. The man had only been dressed in a light jacket. Surely he needed it more than himself. Besides, it suited him better anyway.

The first thing James did upon returning home was set aside a few tablets of Ativan to keep in his jeans or coat pocket. He wasn't quite sure how the thought had never occurred to him before to carry a few pills on his person. But after the attack he had had just an hour or so earlier, he likely wouldn't forget again. He was lounging in the nook with a cup of tea when he heard his phone vibrate from its place on the table in the other room. While a book laid spread open on his lap, he had given up on trying to read quite a while ago. Instead of focusing on the words sprawled across the page, his thoughts kept returning to John. Of the odd yet refreshing clarity he felt whenever he was with him. The way that stupid smirk both annoyed him yet settled the turbulent thoughts and emotions that raged within his mind. James forced himself to finish the last of his lemon and honey tea before abandoning the novel and instead going to check his phone. The moment he saw _John_ flash across the unlocked screen, his heart nearly arrested in his chest.

As always his mind flitted to the worst possible scenario. Was something wrong? Was he alright? Instantly his thoughts calmed when he saw the lighthearted nature of the test. Still, his heart seemed to flutter. Not necessarily from anxiety, but simple nervous energy. Excitement? After sending off his own response... and then two more, he shut the phone off so that he could at last calm down and retire to bed. It worked, but only just. Eventually James found himself coaxed to sleep, the beautiful lyrics John so effortlessly sang caressing his mind like the softest lullaby.

 _My dear_  
_Hold me tight, hold me close_  
_So that when we finally fall_  
_We may sink into those depths together_

* * *

 

"You seem to be in quite the pleasant mood."

Miranda's words caused those green eyes to swiftly flick upwards from where they had been resting on his mug of black coffee. "Beg pardon?" he couldn't help but ask.  
  
Miranda was now giving that usual, knowing smile. That slight turn of her lips that was both clever from her insight, yet kind and gentle at the same time. "You've been grinning at your coffee for nearly five minutes now," she explained with ease. She set down her own tea beside her scone before continuing. "Something on your mind?"  
  
James could feel the beginnings of anxiety as he shuffled slightly in his seat. They were sitting in the far corner of a small bistro, as they usually did for their weekly lunch dates, and he supposed this was as much privacy they could be granted at the moment. He measured his next words carefully, and when he spoke his gaze was purposefully downcast. "Someone... actually," he admitted with a voice that was just barely above a whisper.

"Mr. Silver?"  
  
The muscles in the man's jaw clenched as a heavy sigh slipped passed his lips. His head dipped slightly, his fingers fidgeting, before he finally dared to raise his gaze. Miranda's smile had only widened, her light pink lips blooming like a flower across her face.

"Yes," he practically muttered. The ring on his forefinger spun slowly from his thumb as he tread carefully with his next words. Despite the Ativan in his pocket, he would rather not lead himself into the beginnings of another panic attack. He had already experienced several more since the one John became privy to. "I feel... like I'm betraying Thomas." A finger tapped the edge of his mug as he spoke quietly. "We.." he cleared his throat. "We haven't done anything. I don't even know if we'd actually consider each other friends at this point, but... I can't help.. feeling... Guilty."

"Guilty for what, exactly?" Miranda coaxed him gently.

Despite the developing numbness in his fingertips, James fought passed it and forced himself to continue. "For allowing myself to feel something other than guilt and anger.."  
  
Miranda's expression melted into one of calm concern and understanding. Reaching forward she lightly cupped her hand over his own. "It wasn't your fault, James. Please, don't continue to torture yourself into thinking that way." The muscles in his next corded as he forced down the lump in his throat, but he didn't argue with her. "There is no need to make yourself suffer so.."  
  
"I feel like I'm pushing Thomas aside.."  
  
"Your not, James," she tried to assure him. "You can grieve, you can hold Thomas close in your heart. You can do these things and _still_ move on. Thomas would want you to."  
  
Green eyes closed and James moved to massage his temple. "I don't know," he admitted. "Your words make sense. If this horrible, shitty situation had been flipped around, you know I would be making the same arguement. Even _I_ know that." His knuckles ghosted beneath his jaw as he thought. "I just... I don't know.."

"You feel confused." When he glanced up Miranda was studying him thoughtfully, her hands folded in her lap.

"Yes.."  
  
"You feel nervous, yet excited."  
  
"...Yes..."  
  
Miranda emitted a short, soft laugh. Not one of cruel mocking or disbelief, but... happiness? "You know what it is you're feeling, James. You've felt it before."  
  
Immediately James sat back with a shake of his hand. His hand slipped out from beneath Miranda's as he all but glared at her. "Don't be absurd."

"It's alright.." she tried to sooth.  
  
"How can it be?" he demanded. "I have no right to feel.. _anything_. Not for anyone. Not for you, not for him, not at all."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because it was my fault!" James raged. His voice had risen to a near shout, yet Miranda remained perfectly calm despite the outburst. Despite the stares that were now surely bearing into them.  
  
"Why?" she asked. Her tone had lost its warmth and now held a firm, clipped edge. "Why was it your fault? Were you the one driving the other car?"  
  
"No, but-"  
  
"Were you the one so drunk that he couldn't tell that the light had turned?"  
  
James gave a hard, exasperated shake of his head. "No.." His heart was now thudding away in his chest like a drum. But more than that it felt... heavy. Heavy with the weight of crushed metal and twisted plastic, with the weight of Thomas' lifeless body slumped against his own. Just as the air around him began to feel thick and heavy in his lungs, Miranda's hand came down over his once more. Warm and steady, but with a touch still not as soothing as John's had been.

" _It was not your fault,_ " she assured him softly. "Please, understand that..." She then gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Whatever this connection is that you feel with John.. do not overthink it. Just allow yourself to _feel_ for a change. You deserve happiness, James, and you know that Thomas would agree with me."

When James finally exhaled his breath was unsteady. His tongue felt tied, yet after a few moments he was able to collect himself enough to speak. He swallowed. "I think you would like him..." he eventually offered.

 Miranda smiled once more before lightly patting the top of his hand. "If you like him," she began, "I'm sure that you're right." When it became apparent that James wouldn't be offering up any more information, she provided a large favor by changing the subject. "So, what else is new?"  
  
James swallowed as he took a moment to consider the possible answers. "I've, uhm... Taken up photography," he finally settled on.

Miranda's expression brightened. "Really?" The two then proceeded to spend the next few hours deep in conversation. If James wasn't mistaken, it felt like it used to be. Before Thomas died. He felt at ease, he managed a few laughs. He no longer felt as though he were treading carefully on broken glass around her. It was almost as if he had reclaimed a small portion of himself that had been missing since the accident. A small, sliver of a thing, but a step forward nonetheless.

The moment James bid Miranda farewell with a light kiss placed upon her temple, he returned home and pulled the phone from his pocket. John hadn't texted him since that night. Then again, he hadn't reached out either. Not that he didn't feel the desire, but from the guilt and unease that had weighed down on his mind. Right now, however, Miranda has granted him a brief window of clarity. And so he sent John a quick text, wanting to follow Miranda's advice and act on that impulse before he could talk himself out of it.

3:14 pm _do you want to meet up again?_

It only took a few minutes before his phone buzzed and John's response flashed across his screen.

3:16 pm _of course. just name a time and place_

Once again, James felt that smile tugging at the corner of his lips.


	9. Push and Pull

By all pretenses James had "chickened out", so to speak. It seemed before that his logic had been infallible. Text John and set up another date to meet, provided he was still interested, and do so while Miranda's words still rang clear in his head. Yet mere seconds after reading John's response his breath had found itself locked in his chest once more. He wasn't used to setting plans. Not anymore, at least.

What time frame would be most appropriate for something that wasn't a date? Was it a date? Would it matter, even if it was? Was tomorrow too soon? What if he already had plans? Was such short notice rude, would it make him feel rushed? Yet if he set the date a week out, would that convey disinterest? What if John didn't yet have his schedule? What if during that stretch of time he decided he didn't want to see him after all? What if, what if, what if...

It took two hours for him to ease the torrent of his thoughts enough to reach a decision. One which, fortunately, John had readily agreed to. They would meet at Friday at the same cafe they had run into each other days earlier. It gave James enough time to rest from the toll the week had taken on him. He also let John know that he likely wouldn't be seeing him at Nassau's this Thursday like he usually did. Just the thought of drinking so soon after his latest hangover was enough to make his stomach churn. The man had guessed just as much, answering with a, _"still sick of alcohol?"_. It was quickly followed by a " _xD_ ", though James had no idea what that meant. He didn't ask. Based on Miranda's past teasing, if he didn't understand something it was likely some sort of pop culture reference.

Despite the finalization of their plans, neither of them seemed to lose the desire to continue texting the other. Over the next few days James found himself practically glued to his cell phone. Typically he only carried it with him when he left the house. Other than that it remained on the table in case Miranda or Gates tried to get a hold of him. He was fairly certain that he'd never sent so many texts in his entire life than he did in those couple days. They exchanged idle chit chat and talked about their day. They discussed what books they were currently reading or movies they had recently seen. John shared some of the jokes he had overheard at the bar, and to James' surprise he actually laughed at some of them. John even sent him links to articles he thought he may be interested in. Mostly photography or literature-related, and always something James found himself pouring over.

One day John even sent a photo of himself. He was wearing that genuine smile that reached the blue of his eyes; the one that was offered few and far between. The band could be seen setting up in the background, and the black knit scarf James had left with him was loosely wrapped around his shoulders, going perfectly with the knit jumper he wore. _"Not sure if you realized yet you were missing this,"_ was sent immediately after the picture.

Instead of feeling embarrassment at the indirect reminder of his panic attack in front of the other man, he simply smiled. Even if only in the form of a photo, just seeing John was enough to quell his usual anxiety-ridden thoughts. So he didn't think of the panic he had felt, the loss of control and sense of helplessness. Instead he remembered how brightly those eyes shined in person. How warm his hands had been against his cheeks. How, maybe, the scarf now carried his scent. The mint of his tea, the lingering scent of the cigarettes he smoked, the conditioner he used on his hair.

Instead of answering the hinted question, James simply complimented how it looked on him.

* * *

 

James had changed into three different sets of clothes before he finally found himself presentable enough to go see John. His copper hair hung loose from its usual queue, and he had settled on a plain pair of jeans coupled with a buttoned up long sleeved shirt. He wasn't quite sure why he fussed so when, knowing John, his jeans would have holes in them and his shoelaces would be undone. God, if Miranda could see the way he was primping like this, she would surely fall into a fit of laughter. She had done as much before when he was still getting to know Thomas. And what's more, she had even pinched his cheeks.

_Thomas..._

Green eyes moved downward to take in the simple silver ring that was to forever reside on his forefinger. Thomas and Miranda had elected for simple wedding bands, and when they had so graciously welcomed him into their loving arms, Thomas had thought it only fitting that a third be commissioned for him. He had noticed a few months ago that Miranda no longer wore hers. That she still had it, there was no doubt. It was likely being kept safe in a jewelry box beside Thomas'. It seemed only fitting that it be protected, safely locked away like the treasure it was. While James had moved it from his ring finger, he could never remove it completely. He needed that link. A reminder of the love the three of them had shared.

James quickly pushed these thoughts far from his mind and continued to get ready. Yet even as he did so, his thumb would move to absentmindedly twirl the piece of jewelry. At last James pulled his coat around his shoulders, reaching down to ensure the few pills was still firmly tucked in his pants pocket, and headed out the door. The winter air was cool against his skin, but was otherwise a nice day. Few clouds hung in the sky, and the sun had melted away most of the snow. By the time he reached the cafe John had already arrived. Curiously, James reached into his pocket to check the time on his phone. He was early. _He_ always was, but John didn't seem to be much of the punctual type. The man stood leaning against the building, far from the entrance, with a cigarette between his lips. That black scarf was still wrapped around his shoulders. It matched his black boots, though James' attention was drawn more to the pale blue cable knit sweater, partially concealed by his jacket. The same shade as his eyes.

John noticed his approach within moments and took a final drag of the cigarette before putting it out against the pavement. "Hey," he called casually. His hands stuffed themselves in his pockets as he met him at the entrance, that big silly grin dancing on his face.

Almost immediately James felt rather self-conscious under such a gaze. "What?" he eventually asked.

John's smirk only widened. "Nothing. Just..." He cut himself off then with a shake of his head, his dark ringlets spilling across his shoulders. "Nothing," he assured him. "It's just good to see you. Oh! Before I forget again-" He reached up to pull the scarf free before wrapping it around James' shoulders, muttering something like, "..back where it belongs" beneath his breath. James tried to ignore the way the tension in his muscles so quickly gave way to a pleasant warmth despite all the layers of clothing that separated him from that touch. _But God..._ The faint hint of mint met his nostrils, combined with something else -honey, coconut?- that created the most pleasant combination. Something so entirely John, it made his skin practically buzz.

The man's hands were lingering and James felt like he needed to doing something so he cleared his throat. "Uhm... Shall we?"

Another innocent smile. "Of course!" John held the door open after him with his foot, his left, before going up to the counter and ordering what was probably his usual. He then stared at him expectantly, still smiling, until James found the nerve to follow suit. They got their orders quickly, John handing the cashier a card before James could even fish out his wallet. "Don't worry," he winked. "You can buy next time."

 _Next time..._ Already John was so certain that he wanted to see him again. Why?

The moment the two of them found a small corner table beside the window they sat down. John with a muffin and a drink that was likely more cream and sugar than actual coffee, and James with a small scone and his usual dark roast. "You don't do this often," John noted plainly once they were settled.

James fidgeted slightly beneath the table. "Do what..?" he asked almost hesitantly.

"Go out," John stated before taking a small bite of his poppeyseed muffin. When James lips pursed in silence the musician offered a disarming smile. "Go on, tell me I'm wrong."

Finally James swallowed before managing a shake of his head. "You're not wrong," he conceded. "Told you I.. didn't much care for people."

"Except for me?"

When James glanced up those blue eyes were unusually soft, and that cocky expression had been replaced with something more genuine. Just like the other night when he had pulled him close, held him steady, and talked him through his attack. Despite himself he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward in a smirk. "An exception, not the rule."

When John laughed it was a soft pleasant sound. "I can settled for that," he resigned. "The fact that you haven't told me to piss off yet is quite an honor." He winked.

By now there was no hiding the smirk on the ginger's lips. "Do many?"

John snorted. "Most do," he said with seemingly no remorse. "Hell, even my best friends tell me to fuck off from time to time. You, though..." He seemed to contemplate his next words as he tasted his coffee. "You seem more of a 'I'm not angry, just disappointed type'."

James chuckled. "I suppose."

The guitarist seemed rather triumphant as he took another small bite of his lunchtime dessert. "So what have you been up to the past couple days? Other than humoring my texting, of course?"

"Nothing of any interest," James assured him as he picked at his scone. "Took more photos, the usual."

"Sounds interesting to me." Once again James could feel the heat moving down his neck. Fortunately the scarf concealed it easily, though the pleasant scent it held likely turned the flush of pink a few shades darker. "So," John continued, apparently noticing his discomfort, "Not sure if you remember, but that night we were drinking you said you were a professor. What did you teach?"

"Literature." John made a displeased noise is the back of his throat and James smirked and ducked his head. "What?" he asked, his eyes flicking back to John's.

"Isn't that the class _everyone_ takes for a nap and a few easy credits?"

"Trust me, those types of students transfer out before the first week is over."

Once again John laughed. "Ah, good. So you're just as much of a hard-ass with everyone else as you are with me." James could only grin and dip his head once more.

The rest of the day passed by in a pleasant blur. They stayed at the café for hours talking about anything and everything under the sun. James told him more about what it had been like to be a professor. How he had loved his job, but how, strangely enough, his temper could get away from him. John's favorite example seemed to be locking out a student that was notoriously late. He also talked about how he used to volunteer for the coast guard until his relationship with Miranda and Thomas, which he touched on only briefly, coaxed him away from the sea. John shared with him more of his own past. How he had grown up in foster care, being bounced from one household to another. He told him that he'd been playing guitar since he was ten when one of the foster parents had given him one of their old ones as a gift. James had been amazed to hear that he was completely self taught. John had met Muldoon when he was released from the system at eighteen and took up a job as a receptionist at a tattoo parlor. They have been friends ever since. While he did go to community college briefly, after the loss of his leg he decided to drop out. "Too much else on my mind, you know?" he had told him. James felt that he understood.

When they left the café they spent a few hours simply wandering the city. Walking down the main roads, going in and out of a few book shops, strolling through the park. James even stopped to show him a few of his favorite pieces of architecture to photograph. Whether or not it was something John was genuinely fascinated by, or if he was just an exceptional actor, he couldn't tell. They even stopped by an art exhibit, though they both got shooed out when John absentmindedly started to pull out and light a cigarette. Something that John had vehemently assured him was an accident, so worried he apparently was that James would think he was getting restless and wanting to call it a day. James had only laughed. Before they knew it night had fallen and they stopped by a diner for some food before walking back towards the café.

"So..." John seemed to tread carefully, playing idly with a lighter between his fingers. "How many more times do I need to see you before I can ask you out on a real date?"

James' heartbeat stalled. Even as John gazed up at him with a look that usually calmed him, he could feel his throat tightening. After a moment he seemed to catch his breath and offered a shake of his head. "Are you sure that you want to..?" he finally asked.

The musician only smiled. "I'm pretty sure."

"I'm broken, you said so yourself."

"So am I," the man shrugged. "Everyone is, if you want to be technical about it. Some are just better at concealing it than others.. The real question is, do _you_ want to?"

James could only offer a minute nod. All the feeling had fled from his fingertips and he was fairly certain that if he stuck his tongue out it would be tied in knots.

Those blue eyes seemed to be searching his own. After a moment the man's head dipped as he scratched the back of his head with a forced chuckle. "I mean... What you told me about Thomas.. I understand if you might need more time. If you might not want to at all-"

"I want to." James was certain that John's expression of shock matched his own. It was short-lived, however, as it soon melted away to that kind smile.

John gave a small nod of his head then. "How does New Year's sound?" The rush of unease and panic James felt must have been written all over his face, for John quickly raised his hands in mock surrender. "Billy's having a small party at his apartment. No one will be there that you didn't meet the other night. It'll be around friends, so very low-key. Just drinks, tv, and videogames.. What do you think?"

James allowed himself a few moments to collect himself before speaking again. "Around five people?"

"Not including me, yes."

James took a deep breath before nodding. "Yeah... Yeah, sounds great."

Though John nodded, the kind smile still on his lips, his eyes were searching. "Great," he agreed. "You'll keep texting me, yeah?"

A chuckle left the other man's mouth before he nodded. "Of course."

John seemed to almost glow as he closed the gap between them and placed a light kiss against his cheek. "I'll talk to you later, then. Need some more coffee before I grab a cab. You sure you're okay walking home?

James tried to ignore the swell of heat moving through his chest as he nodded. "It's not far," he assured him. "Plus... exercise, and all that." John only chuckled before offering another 'goodnight' and opening the café door with a soft tink of its bell. James watched him approach the counter before tearing himself away and beginning his walk home. Immediately his fingers reached up to touch the place on his cheek where John's lips had touched. That had been unexpected to say the least. But fuck... It been so long since he'd encountered a pleasant surprise. Absentmindedly he reached into the folds of the scarf to press it against his nose, breathing in the scent of the man that had so unwittingly managed to open the door he had spent the last year nailing shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to rainbowish_unicorn for the beta! <3


	10. New Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=x44410)

James wasn't exactly surprised when the fluttering heartbeats of excitement inevitably gave way to the tremor of anxiety. Nor was he shocked when within mere minutes it had advanced further into that erratic pounding of panic. That deafening beat of a heavy drum that rocked the very ends of his nerves without so much as gracing him with the comfort of a marked rhythm. After all it had happened numerous times before and, as grim of a thought as it was, it was likely only to continue. Ever since the car accident it didn't take much for James to lose his grip on what was more or less keeping his sanity intact. He felt like a fragile windowpane marred by the noticeable cracks and divots that spider webbed across its surface. Something that was broken yet somehow left standing in its weakened frame. And even the smallest disruption to his hard-fought routine would send those broken shards scattering to the ground beneath his feet. It was that semblance of routine, of a pattern that mimicked normal living, that had kept him together these past few months. Well, as "together" as he could possibly be. Yet the moment he had finally met John properly, after months of stolen glances and secret smiles, everything had changed. The man had all but collided with him, the disruption so great that those last remaining pieces of glass had fallen to the ground and shattered into nothing but dust. It was as if there was nothing left for him to hold onto. That the only thing left to do was to finally take that step forward. And that thought terrified him.

James did his utmost best to heed Miranda's words, truly he did. _It wasn't your fault._ It was a mantra that he repeated over and over and over again in his head. Words that he thought every morning when he awoke and every evening before he settled down for a restless night. Yet the guilt he experienced, and the sense of self-hatred at finally wishing to let it go, pervaded him to his very core. It felt as though he was turning his back on Thomas. He wasn't. He knew that he wasn't. Miranda had assured him as much, as did Gates and Charles and even Jack. But as usual that nagging thought persisted. The only difference was that this time he had someone else at his side. A steady hand to both anchor him and coax him forward with small, careful steps. Even now it astonished him how John so effortlessly seemed to push against the boundaries he had long-since set into place. How the man could urge him to travel beyond his comfort zone, yet at the same time do so in such a way that didn't send James careening back within himself, but instead caused him to push further. To seek more.

James was enthralled with the man. Fascinated and terrified, and starved all at once.

As always, the attacks would ultimately end and he would return to that previous state of excitement once more. However, just for good measure James had told Miranda about their "date" during their last phone call. Not for reassurance or comfort, but rather so that if he gave so much as a hint that he would be cancelling their plans, she had permission to do what was necessary to bring him back to his senses. A challenge she had accepted without any hesitance or delay. In a sense he could admit that did provide a shred of comfort, for she had never been one to sit idly by while he fell victim to self-sabotage. And what's more, she seemed just as excited about this development as he was. Such was her nature, he supposed. Ever since the beginning of their tentative relationship she had only wanted what was best for him. Even so she didn't press for a proper introduction or berate him with questions about the musician. James was close enough with her to know that it wasn't out of disinterest. Rather, she was aware that these things would come to light when the timing was right. They always did.

While New Years was still a little over a week away, the time passed by rather quickly. He continued to exchange texts with John numerous times a day, and soon enough they were even sharing a few phone calls. The first call came so that John could wish him and Miranda a merry Christmas; the other had lasted hours. They had talked about their day and the upcoming New Years, their potential plans together passed that, and exchanged idle chatter. Eventually it had ended with James falling asleep around two in the morning with his headset still in place, listening to the gentle cords of John's guitar as he shared with him the newest verse he was currently working on. Their conversations were not restricted to mere texts or phone calls, either. While their official date had been set, their day wandering through the city together had not been their last meet-up. James found himself at Nassau's quite a few times during that week. Not to drink, but to simply enjoy listening to John play guitar and sing to his heart's content. Afterwards they would grab a quick dinner, either there or somewhere else, and catch a movie. What the films had been about he was never certain, as his gaze had always been trained on the man sitting beside him instead of on the screen. One night James finally ventured to ask how these outings differed from their "actual" date. With a smirk John gave an answer that had promptly sent his heart into his throat and a rush of heat down his neck.

 _"Oh, I don't know.. A kiss on the lips. Or maybe even below the belt."_ While John had made it obvious that he was joking --he had quickly learned that a wide smile followed by a wink meant exactly that-- it had still sent his heart pounding. Whether from anticipation or anxiety, he wasn't certain. He never was when it came to John.

When the evening of their date had finally arrived James was all but buzzing with nervous energy. That careful, ever-present precipice balancing between excitement and panic. It was both unsettling and exhilarating. Miranda had called to check on him twice to see if he was, in fact, still going. With a nervous laugh he had told her that he was, and he could practically hear the smile in her voice when she encouraged him to go have fun. John had told him several days prior that he and the others would be going straight over to Billy's apartment after their set at Nassau's. While he had offered to come pick him up on the way James had vehemently refused, saying that he would instead meet them there. John didn't push. He likely knew that the group, as small as it was, could trigger an episode of panic if they were all piled into one car. Not to mention that leaving him to take his own cab gave him plenty of opportunities to change his mind if it all became too much. It granted him that sense of control. While James always enjoyed the man's company, in this particular instance he was grateful for the opportunity travel alone and at his own pace. He'd rather John not see the way his fingers fidgeted with his ring as he moved up the stairwell with ever-increasing breaths. Not see how he kept tugging at the collar of his coat as it felt too tight, even though all the buttons remained undone. Not see the way his fingers moved over his pocket to ensure that his meds were still there just in case he needed them.

Fortunately enough, by the time he reached the apartment number John had texted him James had once again regained that mask he had spent the past year perfecting. He knocked twice before returning his hands to his coat pockets to better conceal any nervous ticks. Yet the moment that door opened his calm expression faltered ever so slightly. Of course Billy had been the one to answer the door. Even as he leaned against the doorframe he towered over him by several inches and seemed to take up the whole space. Those steel gray eyes raked over him with that same calm yet distrustful gaze, his tongue stuck in his cheek as he seemed to once again be measuring him up. James was currently tripping over his tongue, trying to form a greeting -- _something--_  when a hand settled on one of those muscled arms and coxed him aside. The smaller man --Ben, was it?-- offered him a friendly smile. Just from that simple act he began to feel at ease, if only just.

"It's nice to see you again." Ben didn't wait for a response before continuing. "Please ignore Billy here. Really, he's harmless." As he spoke he elbowed the giant lightly in the ribs until he retreated back inside and Ben could better usher James into the apartment.

The moment James crossed the threshold his eyes immediately began to sweep across the living room in search of John. As always it didn't take long for him to spot that handsome mess of black curls. The man was lounging on the couch in front of a flat screen tv with a gaming controller in hand, a smile dancing across his lips as he spoke with Muldoon. The drummer was sitting beside him with his left leg, or rather his prosthetic, resting over his lap. The jeans had been rolled up to just below the bend of his knee and a slew of paints and brushes were spread out on the cushion next to him. Muldoon was bent over in deep concentration and seemed unaffected by the one-sided conversation. If he didn't know better he would think the man was... painting on him?

"James!"  
  
Green eyes flicked upwards to land on John's face. The man was flashing that usual brilliant smile as he began to slide off the couch, much to Muldoon's disdain.  
  
"Oi!" the bald man called out almost angrily. He scrambled to right the paints that had tipped over from John's sudden shifting, just barely managing to catch a small pot of black before it fell and spilled on the floor.  
  
John only laughed. "Oh, fuck off," he shot back halfheartedly. "You can finish it later."  
  
Muldoon muttered a long string of curses under his breath before finishing with a much more discernable, "Just be careful not to smudge it!"

John paid little mind to the warning, however. Instead his attention seemed to be completely focused on James. The man had crossed the room with that effortless, practiced gait and now gave a gentle tug on the end on James' shirt. "It's good to see you," John murmured. He was practically beaming, the corners of his mouth upturned in a private smile as he gazed upwards with those bright blue eyes.

Despite himself James found his fingers moving restlessly at his side. "You saw me the day before yesterday.." he couldn't help but shyly point out.  
  
The musician's smile only grew. "That I did," he agreed. The moment he began to lean forward into his space James felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders grow tense. It was an involuntary reaction that he had always hated. John, as perceptive an individual as always, sensed his discomfort and eased a bit before pressing a light kiss against his cheek. It was not unlike the one he had given him so many days before and it affected him the same way now as it had then. James' eyes fell closed as that tingling warmth resonated from the point of contact to the tips of his fingers and all the way down to the soles of his feet.

James hadn't realized that his hands had settled on John's waist until the man began to step back. His hand moved to the small of his back to not only steady him, but to signal that he wasn't adverse to the close contact. That he welcomed it, no matter how his body betrayed him with those nervous ticks. His other hand raised to tentatively tuck a stray curl behind his ear. "Uhm. Did I interrupt something?" he asked after a moment. He tried to ignore the ever-increasing dryness in his mouth and instead glanced back down towards the swirling designs that had been painted onto the top side of his fake leg.

John chuckled. "Yeah, Muldoon's been bugging me for years to let him give me a tattoo. Figured this compromise might shut him up for a while."

Across the room Muldoon offered a laugh so sharp it almost sounded like a bark. "Managed to get him in the chair once, only for him to leap out of it the moment the needle touched his skin!" he recounted between laughs.

John angled a harsh glare in his direction. "I have an exceptionally low tolerance for pain," he explained after a moment with an exasperated roll of his eyes. James' lips twitched into a frown. John could apparently sense where his thoughts were beginning to drift for he gave a short tug on the front of his coat. The distraction worked easily enough. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah.. Sure." James pulled his coat from around his shoulders and hung it on the wall hook alongside the others. He hadn't even realized he still had it on. John's hand swiftly found his own and guided him towards the small kitchen that was set off to the left. Bottles of wine and champagne lined the island, as well as a bowl of pretzels and other snacks, and two opened cases of beer sat on the floor.

Billy was leaning back against the counter with Ben pulled close, an a strong arm wrapped around his waist as the man murmured something quietly into his ear. The moment they realized they were no longer alone Ben cleared his throat and pulled away, his cheeks flushed a deep pink.

"Oh, don't mind us," John chuckled before shooting the flustered man a wink. He rummaged through the fridge for a few moments before apparently finding what he had been searching for. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed triumphantly. When he straightened and knocked the fridge door shut with his elbow, he revealed two apple cider lagers. The exact same brand as the ones he always ordered at Nassau's. "I made sure to get these just for you."

James couldn't stop the genuine smile that spread across his face as he accepted the bottle that was handed to him. "You are..." Softly he chuckled and shook his head. "Something else.. Thank you."  
  
John simply grinned. He tapped the end of the glass bottle against his own before taking a drink. James followed suit before being guided back into the main room once more. Now that his mind had settled a bit he could better take in his surroundings and the company he was with. The apartment was quite large, at least two bedrooms beside the kitchen. It was clean, neat. Muldoon had taken over John's side of the couch and now held the controller to whatever video game they had been playing. He also spotted Anne sitting beside the window with a beer in hand and a cell phone resting atop her stretched out legs. Earlier that day he had texted John to double-check that the names matched properly with the faces locked in his memory. He had decided he'd rather not have yet another reason to trip over his tongue during conversation. As usual, the soft lilt of John's voice now coerced him back from his thoughts.  
  
"I must apologize," the man said as he tapped almost nervously at the side of the bottle. "Logan decided he'd rather spend the night with his girlfriend, Charlotte." James quirked an eyebrow at him, not quite understanding the problem. "Two others are stopping by instead." As he spoke a knock sounded at the door and he went to go answer it. "Max, who I'm sure you've seen me with before, and--"  
  
"Jack?"  
  
"James!" The man who now stood at the other side of the door was unmistakable. Or rather, those ridiculous side burns, unnecessary sunglasses, and neck scarf were. Jack didn't waste any time before stepped forward and clapping James hard on the shoulder. James couldn't even open his mouth before the man had drawn him into an awkward, one-armed hug. "I haven't seen you in a few months. Christ, you look fantastic!"  
  
James tried to ignore the usual strength of his aftershave as he returned the contact with a firm pat against his back. While he had known Jack for quite a while, after so many months apart he had found himself caught off guard by his boisterous personality. Not to mention he always did get a little overly-energetic when it came to social gatherings. The French singer he had seen several times before stood behind him with a slender eyebrow arched. John looked equally perplexed.  
  
"Oh," John managed, his confusion obvious. "You two already know each other?"  
  
"Oh yes," Jack assured him. "We've known each other for _years_." Something seemed to dawn on him then and he stepped back to exchange a series of glances between the two of them. "Oh. Oooh, so _this_ is the grouchy redhead whose pants you-- Ow!" He stumbled back slightly against the doorframe after John delivered a swift kick to his shin.  
  
James didn't miss the unmistakable flush of embarrassment that colored the man's cheeks. It was... adorable. So much so that a smile was once again teasing at his lips.

"I'm sorry," John stammered, his eyes lowered as he gestured vaguely towards Jack. "He never knows when to.."  
  
"-Shut up? Yes, I know," James chuckled. "Trust me, you'll get used to it."  
  
"Fucking hell, Silver," Jack swore as he rubbed meekly at his leg. "With your _left_ foot, really _?_ You are a cruel man."

John only snorted. "Anyway," he huffed after a few moments, scratching the back of his head. "As you already know this asshole, this here is Max. She has the unfortunate luck of working with him.

Max offered up a warm smile as she stepped forward and touched his arm. "Nice to meet you." Her hazelnut eyes were calm, calculating, and looking upon him with that knowing expression that he could only liken to Miranda's.  
  
"Likewise," James offered after managing to swallow back his uncertainty.  
  
The woman hummed softly, apparently not minding his weak reply. At least it felt weak to him. She shot John a gentle glance before stepping passed the group and going to join Anne beside the window. Two didn't hesitate before exchanging a brief kiss. Jack seemed to have recovered and gave James a final pat against his shoulder, distracting him. "It's good seeing you again. Really. We certainly need to catch up later, but for now my lady awaits." He winked from behind his tinted sunglasses before retreating to pull Anne into his arms. To his surprise, the usually harsh-looking woman seemed to melt into his arms before giving him a fierce kiss on the mouth. He had known Jack had been serious with a girl for many, many years, though they had never been introduced. Max, however, was a development that he had heard nothing about. Not that he minded in the least, of course. In fact, in only better explained why he and Jack had always gotten along so well. Why he was so understanding upon learning of his relationship with Miranda and Thomas.

When James glanced back at John the man was still looking rather flustered. He couldn't help his amusement at the fact. This was perhaps the first time he had seen John looking so vulnerable, so off-guard, and so he couldn't help the next words that fell out of his mouth. "So.. What exactly was it that you wanted to do with my pants?" he wondered aloud. The man's cheeks darkened another shade and James couldn't help but chuckle. Gently he pulled him close and nuzzled his nose into those dark curly locks.  
  
"Thank god there's more alcohol," he could hear John mutter against his collarbone. James only smiled once more before placing a light kiss at the crown of his head.

The rest of the evening continued without delay or disruption. Despite sharing close quarters with people who were more or less still perfect strangers, James failed to sense the anxiety that was usually gnawing at the back of his mind. He felt no unease, no guilt, no panic. Not even when Max roped him into a conversation or he had decided to help Ben in the kitchen with some pastries. Not even when Muldoon so easily convinced him to join him on the couch for a round of video games. While he was rather lousy at it, he'd never really used a game controller before, the man only encouraged him, saying that at the very least he was better than Jack. Before he knew it, James could honesty claim that he was enjoying himself. He was having _fun._ There was rarely a moment when he wasn't smiling to at least some degree. His mind swam from the liquor and his ribs almost ached from laughing. And while John was certainly beloved by all these people, the man never strayed far from his side. He was always within reach. A hand would ghost along his arm from time to time, quelling any nervousness and anchoring him in place. Those fingers would brush against his own in a way that sent electricity coursing through him. His hair, still smelling of cigarettes and coconut, tickled against his cheek whenever he leaned particularly close to share a private word or offer advice with the controller.

It had been so long since he had enjoyed such wonderful company. Just like John these people had nothing to share but warm smiles and kind words. Even Billy eventually loosened up after a few drinks. There was no doubt that this group of friends was tightly knit and had been so for some time. The fact that they had so easily opened up their arms to him caused a strange sensation to arise in his chest. One that he quickly buried, for fear of inspecting it too closely.

By the time then new year was truly upon them the counter was littered with empty bottles. A few were even strewn across the floor. Jack was passed out drunk against the table, as was Muldoon, but not before he had painted a proper beard on the man's face with his acrylics. Eventually Max's voice broke the comfortable quiet to point out the fireworks that had begun to raise about the skyline. Even without the bursts of light from both the sky above and the street below, the drunken cheerful shouts and sound of firecrackers was enough to let them know that it had finally struck midnight.  
  
Ben and Billy were already plastered together and, by the looks of it, they had been for quite a while now. Anne gave Max a silent, gentle nudge with her elbow before the other leaned in close for a kiss. James was certain that John was staring at him before he even felt the heavy weight of his gaze. Even so, the moment their eyes locked he could feel the breath as it left his lungs. But more than that, he finally felt that uncomfortable tightness grip his chest like a vice. That horrible sensation that had been absent this whole evening up until now. John seemed to sense the drastic change in his countenance for his expression softened.  
  
"It's okay," John soothed. He kissed his cheek warmly before drawing him into a tight hug. "Happy New Year."

James didn't hesitate before wrapping his arms around the younger man. He buried his nose against his curls, breathing in the comforting scent of him as he held John so incredibly close. In this man's arms he felt safe, secure, and when he mirrored those words they were done so softly. After a few moments James withdrew ever so slightly from that warm embrace. Not much, just enough to be able to press his lips against John's in a gentle, chaste kiss. When they broke apart John's apparent surprise was only matched by his awe. "It's a tradition, right?" James asked with a nervous, uncertain smile. The heat in his cheeks was unmistakable, and beneath John's gaze it almost burned.  
  
"I guess it is," John agreed before their lips met softly once more.

* * *

Eventually the evening had finally caught up with them. Max and Anne had settled down in large recliner, a knit blanket wrapped around them both, and John was out cold. Not merely asleep but, based on how he remained undisturbed as James maneuvered him to lie back on the couch, passed out. James couldn't help the unease that crept at the back of his mind. While it was true he hadn't kept an eye on John the entire evening, as far as he knew he hadn't drank that much. Certainly not enough to pass out drunk, especially considering how he had seen John throw back several shots without taking too much of a hit. Even so, the beginning torrent of thoughts couldn't help but be eased as he looked down upon the man. At the long lashes that touched his cheeks and the lips that were slightly parted as he drew in slow, steady breaths. With tentative fingers he reached out to brush a few stray curls from his face.

"He shouldn't sleep with the prosthetic on." Billy's voice almost made James jump out of his skin. Yet the man didn't seem to pay him much mind as he drew close and bent down next to him. "Irritates the skin," he explained simply. James watched silently as the man removed the prosthetic leg with the skillful movements of a man that had clearly spent years in the medical field. He was careful not to scratch the designs Muldoon had painted on as he leaned it against the end of the couch where it would be comfortably within reach.  
  
"John told me you were the EMT that pulled him out," James offered after a moment. He wasn't sure what made him decide to state something the other man obviously already knew. Perhaps to break the silence, perhaps to try and bridge the gap between them. Perhaps, if anything, to show that he cared. Not just for John, but for the close ties he had with them. Of all of them, Billy had remained the most distant. He knew well enough not to take it personally. The man didn't know him well enough to dislike him; he was just being protective of his friend. Billy simply hummed and so James tried again. "Thank you." This time the giant actually looked at him. "For... doing what needed to be done. For saving him." He slowly swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat.  
  
Billy nodded slowly before standing. "You should stay the night," he offered gently. James was about to protest but was promptly cut off. "I'll grab you both a blanket."  
  
James' fingers tapped against the edge of the couch aimlessly as he watched Billy disappear down the hall. After a moment he sighed before redirecting his gaze to John's face once more. He couldn't help but reach out, threading his fingers through the curls as he gently massaged the base of his neck. A soft hum left John's lips as he shifted to nuzzle against the cushion of the arm rest. This time James heard Billy's approach before he had the chance to speak. He accepted the quilt gratefully before draping it over the younger man's sleeping form.  
  
"He acts tough," Billy stated after a moment, his arms folded. "Like he's invincible, like nothing ever gets to him.. He's not." This time the firm nature of his tone was enough to make James lift his gaze. "He's more fragile then he looks. Please don't hurt him."  
  
James swallowed lightly. "I hope that I won't," he murmured softly.  
  
Billy only responded with a curt nod and a polite "goodnight". Ben had poked his head out into the hall and was apparently waiting for the other man to come to bed. That being said, within moments James was alone once more.  
  
James lifted the heavy blanket before joining John and curling up at the opposite end of the couch. It wasn't the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but it would do. And after such a wonderful night, with John's form so warm beside his own, it didn't take long before exhaustion made his eyes grow heavy and he was coaxed into a dreamless sleep. The first he had been graced with in quite a while.


	11. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=2rpzar9)

When John awoke the next morning he did so with a hearty, albeit muffled, yawn. Arms stretched out above his head as his back arched into it, his good leg digging into the couch cushion beneath him as he rolled over onto his back. The morning sunlight streaming through the bare windows elicited a groan the moment he made the mistake of opening his eyes. The sound gave way to incoherent mumbling as he reached up to grip his forehead. _Fuck..._ It was ironic how popping pain pills could result in such a nasty hangover. Then again, his head certainly didn't ache with the severity it regularly had so many months ago. Still, it was not a pleasant experience at all.

John gave himself a few moments to settle before attempting to crack his eyes open once more. His palm shielded his gaze for good measure as his eyes slowly adjusted to the offensive dawn. He had to blink twice before truly noticing the sight in front of him. James was huddled up at the end of the couch by his feet --okay, his _foot_ \-- with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Despite the fact that he was more or less in a hunched over position, he appeared to be sleeping rather comfortably. Stray locks of auburn hair hung in his face, his chin nearly resting against his shoulder as his chest rose and fell with each peaceful breath.

John didn't bother trying to mask the smile that spread across his face. The man was a sight, truly. And all at once the events of the night before came rushing back to him. The way James had finally stepped out of his shell and intermingled with his friends. How he had engaged in actual conversation with Ben and Muldoon instead of shrinking back in an attempt to disappear into the very walls behind him. As the evening progressed James had begun to shed that frightened countenance that he could only liken to a deer in the headlights. Until, if he didn't know any better, he would think the man was genuinely enjoying himself. He had laughed and smiled freely and without worry. It was a beautiful sight and one that was incredibly intoxicating to watch. Especially when he had allowed himself the thought that maybe, perhaps, it was due in part to him.

John gave a contented sigh as he allowed his eyes to slip shut once more. Almost lazily he reached up to touch his lips. He hadn't taken enough pills last night to get high, not in the least. He hadn't had the desire to in months. Instead he had merely sought to take the edge off, to still his nerves, so that he could maybe enjoy a holiday that usually made him so miserable. So he remembered with blessed clarity how James' lips had pressed against his own not long after the stroke of midnight. And of his own volition, no less! Soft, warm and steady. Those were the sensations that had pervaded his mind at the time, and the ones that returned to him now. As far as first kisses went it was not bad. Not by a long shot. While it certainly lacked the almost clumsy passion and desire he was used to, in its own way James' tender kiss was far more meaningful. It had conveyed not only affection, but friendship and trust. Something perhaps they both sourly needed.

John was careful not to disturb James or his own throbbing head as he shifted to sit on the edge of the couch. The prosthesis had been removed by Billy no doubt, and was easily within reach. That part of the evening he did not remember. In truth, he didn't really recall anything after the kiss and the last round of drinks that had followed. Guess mixing drugs and booze had finally caught up with him full-force. Ah well.

John held onto the end of the couch for support as he struggled to his feet. Muldoon was still fast asleep against the small kitchen table and Anne was curled up on the recliner. By the looks of it Jack and Max had already taken off. Ah, the woes of having a full time position at a corporation. The poor sods. He had just made it into the kitchen when he heard the soft padding of footsteps down the hall. However, it wasn't enough to distract him from his current goal of finding some food. Perhaps if nothing else it would ease the grating feeling in his head.

"I thought you had run out of pills?"

John quickly glanced passed the side of the fridge door. Once he was satisfied that James hadn't stirred he was free to aim a sharp glare in Billy's direction.

"I did," he answered simply. Though he'd turned back towards the fridge in an effort to hide the scowl on his face, his words were clipped.

"Then what was it you were taking last night?"

John released a frustrated sigh before closing the door a bit harder than necessary. "Fine, it was Vicodin," he confessed. "Alright, mother hen?"

"Narcotics again? Where the fuck--"

"Jesus Christ, will you keep it down!?" John hissed with another nervous glance towards the couch. "I told you I wasn't getting high anymore and I meant it. So fuck off."

Billy's expression only hardened and John sighed, muttering slightly as he set some orange juice down on the counter. "Look, I was nervous, alright?" he finally offered. There was a reason he had invited James to a social event for their first "official date". That was usually the point when John would take the opportunity to show the other his artificial leg. Whether or not he had already told them about the injury mattered very little, as there was quite a difference between hearing about it and actually seeing it. Usually it was a deal breaker. Whether it was because it was ugly or odd, made them feel uncomfortable, or for some other reason. That was usually the case. That was when the person would get freaked out and start pulling away. That was why he usually stuck to one night stands.

John had been so petrified of letting James actually see the leg that he had continued to put it off. He didn't want the man to turn from him, to give him any more of a reason aside from his own hang ups to run from whatever relationship they had finally begun to forge. Then the perfect opportunity had presented itself: New Years. John had assumed that the presence of his friends would stem his growing anxiety. After all, if James did react poorly in some form or another there would be a support network right there to fall back on. To cushion the blow. Unfortunately his fear of rejection had still gotten the better of him, and so he had decided to rely on the help of a little something extra. A little something that had proved to pack quite the wallop in the past.

Billy didn't seem too overly impressed with his excuse. Then again, when did he ever? That being said, the preceding lecture was not at all unexpected. That mixing drugs and alcohol was always dangerous, and even more so when it came to _those kinds_. That he shouldn't be able to get those without a prescription and for a good reason. That no, "some guy I know" is not just as good as a doctor. And whatever else came spilling out of the man's mouth. He had heard it all before. This time, however, it wasn't a concern. He wasn't using the way he had been in the past. This was just to calm his nerves every so often.

That was it, just a quick fix to a temporary problem.  
No big deal.

John appreciated his friend's concern. Truly, he did. And while he was grateful that Billy was actually using his hushed indoor voice now, he was even more relieved when Ben appeared and wrapped his arms around the larger man. The warm embrace immediately had Billy clamping his mouth shut. God, if only he had that ability at times. Might save them both some time and effort.

"Are you two arguing again?" Ben struggled with a muffled yawn.

"No," Billy forced out a little too quickly. Ben only smiled and pressed a kiss against his lips.

John groaned and turned to grab the juice from where he had set it. "You two are truly disgusting," he mumbled halfheartedly. He was about to take a swig directly from the carton when Billy snatched it from his hands.  
  
"Get a glass," he snapped. "You don't live here anymore, you know."  
  
"Oh, give me a--"  
  
"Will you shut the fuck up already!?" Anne all but barked from her spot in the living room. The blanket that was partially covering her head did little to detract from the piercing glare she was aiming at them.  
  
While the lot of them immediately fell silent the damage had already been done. Muldoon groaned from where he was currently drooling on the table while Anne turned back over which an agitated huff. John's gaze, however, was focused on James who was now awake on the couch. He didn't bother giving Billy a look of warning. He knew the man well enough to know that while this discussion would certainly be continued later, it was off-limits around the others. Especially James. He didn't want the man to worry about this; especially since there was nothing for him _to_ worry about.

John managed to grab the carton back from Billy while he was still properly distracted. However, he did at least humor the man's request and took a random glass from the pantry. By the time he had crossed the room James was sitting up at the edge of the couch and rubbing any traces of sleep from his eyes. His hair had fallen loose from its queue only for those beautifully freckled fingers to comb through the locks. The musician smirked as he offered him the glass.  
  
"How's your head?" he asked.

James chuckled. "Not bad," he admitted after taking a sip. "Fortunately I haven't had the desire to drink that much as of late.." When he glanced up again those green eyes were shining almost as brightly as the smile on his lips.

John swallowed. He didn't miss how his own fingers began to twitch slightly beneath that disarming smile. "Did you want to stay for breakfast?" he asked. He tried to smother the sudden bought of nervousness beneath his usual toothy grin.  
  
James' expression shifted to an unreadable one before he offered a shake of his head. "No... I don't want to impose," he said gently. "I should actually be going.."

Though John was not pleased with the decision he at least understood it. James had already made great strides by coming down here in the first place, and he certainly didn't want to push the man. Small steps needed to be taken. One at a time. Though patience was never something he had possessed before, certainly not in stride, he could do it now. He would be patient, for James.  
  
"I'll walk you down, then," John offered with a shrug. "It's just as well, anyways. I shit at cooking." When James' smile returned moments later he immediately felt more at ease.

.....

  
The two didn't leave immediately. Anne had gone back to sleep while Muldoon awoke to find a dick drawn on his forehead. Apparently Jack hadn't appreciated him painting in his sideburns the night before. So strong was his lack of appreciation, that he had drawn the phallic symbol with an industrial sharpie. At the very least the rest of them found it amusing. Even Anne, who had been roused once more due to his belly-aching, cracked a wry smirk. John encouraged James to take in and relish the sight, for it was a rare one.  
  
By the time the two of them made their way down the hall, Ben had force-fed them both some coffee and toast with jam. While his own efforts to feed James had resulted in naught, Ben had proved to be a much greater force to be reckoned with. Not that he minded. John was grateful to have some food in his stomach, not to mention some additional time spent with the man he had come to care so much for. Again John began to remember their kiss from the night before and he found a swell of heat moving up through his chest. Fortunately James didn't appear to notice he color that was surely darkening his cheeks.

"So..." John began with a smirk when they eventually stepped out onto the street. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" As he spoke he took a cigarette out of his coat pocket. "I recall you enjoying yourself quite a bit." The smile that curled at James' mouth was small yet genuine. In fact, it was distracting enough to make him fumble with the damned lighter.  
  
"I haven't felt so at ease in a while," James admitted. The smile on the ginger's face only grew though he did seem to dip his head from embarrassment. "Thank you, John.. Really. For everything..." John watched the bob of his Adam's apple as he took a long drag from the cigarette. Yet when he heard those next words, "You're a good friend," his own countenance faltered.  
  
_Friend._

John cleared his throat as he shoved the brewing thoughts aside. "No problem," he assured him. Though his voice was steady, the attempt at his usual, confident grin was shoddy at best. "I'll text you later, okay?"  
  
James seemed to notice the abrupt change in his manner but nodded nonetheless. "Of course.. I'll talk to you later." John didn't miss how the man fidgeted. How he acted as though he had something else to say. Even so the moment seemed to pass and James offered a final goodbye before makinv his way down the street.  
  
Once John was alone an exasperated sigh left his lips. _Friend._ Dejectedly he leaned against the building. The brick was cool against his back as he tilted his head upwards to blow lazy rings of smoke towards the sky. He was about to lament his most recent decision to exercise patience when out of the corner of his eye he noticed James. The man had stopped in his tracks at the street corner and seemed to be warring with himself. He turned in place and shifted on his feet in a way that almost had John smirking. Eventually he seemed to make up his mind for he began walking back towards him with a pace so brisk it was nearly a jog.

John moved to take the cigarette from his mouth as his brow arched in amused curiosity. He was about to ask the man if he had forgotten something, he had always been quite taken to sarcasm, when he caught the look in his eye. The normal green had been overshadowed by a heady black. He wasn't given much time to appreciate the change before soft hands cradled his cheeks and those lips came crashing against his own.  
  
John must have dropped the cigarette for the next thing he knew he had grabbed fistfuls of James' coat to pull him even closer. The kiss was everything that had been missing the first time. It was hurried and clumsy and wet. As far as second kisses went, it was _perfect._ He reveled in the way those fingers grabbed at his curls, the way the nails scraped lightly against his scalp as their kiss gave way to teeth and tongue. Unfortunately, it was also brief.

The moment James pulled away John found himself leaning forward in an effort to chase after him. However, the hands that still cupped his jaw held him at bay. He was still working on regaining his breath when those blue eyes opened to peer up at the man. By all appearances James was just as out of breath as he was. His eyes flicked across his face as if searching for something and his mouth opened and closed awkwardly as he struggled to find something to say.

As James was apparently at a loss for words, John decided to lend a hand and be the one to speak first. Yet he couldn't help the light mocking that decided to spill out. " _Friend_ , huh?" John mimicked the word teasingly and with a ridiculous grin.

Though James' cheeks darkened slightly he also smiled. That warm, beautiful smile that reached his eyes and made John's breath catch in his chest. "Little shit," he returned jokingly. Suddenly he realized he was still holding him close and let his hands fall from his face. With a nervous swallow James tucked them back into his pockets, likely to conceal the usual fidgeting. "Uhm.. Can I call you tonight?" he asked softly.

John's smirk only widened. "You fucking better."  
  
James nodded. "Tonight, then.." With noted hesitation he leaned closer to press a kiss against his forehead. As much as John wanted to shift his stance enough to catch the man's lips once more, he refrained. He could already see the familiar anxiety beginning to worm its way through him and he didn't want to worsen it. So he would be patient. Yet as he watched James' retreat until he disappeared around the corner, he knew that the evening would be spent staring at his phone. Waiting, wanting. 

* * *

 

It had been five days since James had stopped calling and three days since he had stopped answering John's texts altogether. Eventually John had given up on trying to get any form of response from the man. While the silence had initially resulted in worry, it had soon given way to confusion, desperation, anger, and even self-loathing. Especially after he had been stood up for what would have been their second "official" date. That being said, his thoughts were rife with questions he couldn't possibly answer. What had he done? Had James decided that his injury was too much? Did he think him a freak, an invalid? Had he changed his mind about him for some other reason? Why was he being ignored?  _Why?_

John leaned forward against the bar at Nassau's. He had just finished the night's set with the others and had decided to sit back for a drink. Or several. However many it took to numb the pain that made his heart weigh just as heavily as his limbs. With a frustrated sigh he took his phone from his jean pocket to check his messages. Still no answer... For shits and giggles he tapped the phone icon with his thumb as he took another drink of whiskey. It wasn't much of a surprise when it went straight to voicemail. It had done the same several times before, and just as it did then it sent his hurt and anger boiling straight to the surface. This time, however, he had enough liquor in his system to convince him that it would be a good idea to leave a message. An angry one.  
  
To be honest John had no idea what it was he had said. Or rather yelled. Not that he was drunk, because he wasn't, but merely from the way the torrent of emotions he had felt these past few days had finally been unleashed. Whatever it was he had said proved effective, however, for his phone began buzzing not minutes later. Without hesitation he slid across the screen to answer it.  
  
John snorted. "Of course now you finally call," he seethed. "Look, if my leg is such a fucking problem, the least you could do is tell me. Every one else has. So just go ahead!" When the other end of the line remained silent it only served to renew his frustration. He was just about to hang up when he heard it.

It was almost a feint choking sound, a stutter. One that was quickly followed by a struggled, "I'm sorry--"

The distressed nature of the man's tone quickly caused John's anger to melt away until there was little left but concern. "James?" he asked. His voice was now much gentler. "Are you alright..?"  
  
More silence. Then, "No--"  
  
"Are you at home?" The quiet that persisted only caused John's worry to mount. "James?" he repeated when there was no answer.

Shuffling could be heard at the other end of the line. The erratic pattern of struggled, panted breaths coupled with the sound of pacing feet. "Yes," James finally managed after what felt like minutes.

"I'll be right there." John didn't remember hanging up the phone or paying his tab. Hell, he didn't even remember hailing the cab. Yet soon enough he found himself climbing up James' doorsteps. Despite his eidetic memory he couldn't recall the exact address from the night he had taken James home. After all, that time he  _had_ been drunk. He did, however, remember enough to give the cab driver directions until they came upon the row home that stuck out from his memory.  
  
John didn't waste time trying the doorbell or knocking. By the sounds of it James was in the middle of an attack. If it was anything like the last one he doubted he'd be able to answer the door any time soon. So instead he went about looking over his immediate surroundings. It was customary for pretty much everyone to leave a spare key somewhere outside their home in case they lost theirs or otherwise got locked out. James didn't seem to be the type to enjoy digging through topsoil for one, and stowing it beneath a mat was far too simple. He was, however, tall. John stretched out as best he could, standing on the very tiptoes of his good leg to be able to reach the darkened porch light. Sure enough, a small key sat against the top cover towards the brick wall.

"James?"

John called out to him the moment he stepped inside the house. The last thing he wanted to do was startle the poor man by catching him off guard. Unfortunately, just as expected he was met with silence. The room at the end if the hall was illuminated and so he decided to check there first. The kitchen was empty save for several empty bottles of hard liquor. Though a frown pulled at John's lips he tried not to think on it too much and instead headed upstairs.

When John finally found the man he released a sigh of relief he didn't know he had been holding. He was in what looked to be a study or a private library, but it was not the surroundings that captured his attention, but _him_. James was oblivious to his presence and paced back and forth across the room with hurried steps. His breathing had been reduced to short, shallow gasps, and his cellphone was clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were blanched. Unfortunately, the rest of him was in a similar state of disarray. Just as when he had come to the bar drunk, his clothes were wrinkled and his hair disheveled. Almost as if he had spent the day nervously raking his fingers through it.

How long had he been like this? Hours? Days?

Almost immediately John felt like an ass. It all made sense now. The way James had suddenly withdrawn, the lack of their nightly phone calls, the texts that went unanswered.. Of course it had been from panic. And John had been so wrapped up in his own insecurities that he had likely only made the situation that much worse.

"James?" John offered gently. He spoke just loud enough to get his attention.

It worked. James stopped in his tracks, and when he turned to look at him his eyes were wild. Wide and unseeing not unlike that of a cornered animal. "I'm sorry," he all but gasped. "I'm sorry--" His voice was raw, pleading. 

John chewed on his lower lip. The panic attack he had witnessed in the ally had not been a pleasant experience, but this.. Well, this was completely different. James wasn't caught in the middle of some struggle to regain his composure, his control. Instead he was already entirely unhinged.

"It's alright," John tried to sooth. His hands raised slightly as he spoke, just as one would do when approaching a frightened and corner animal.

James only shook his head as he began pacing once more. "No," he struggled. "No. I can't.. I can't do this-- I can't..!" His thumb worked to spin the ring on his finger as he moved. John could clearly see the rapid rise and fall of James' chest as he moved back and forth. He was hyperventilating.

"James," John tried again. This time he didn't stop his fervent pacing and so he stepped forward to carefully place a hand against his arm. Finally James managed to still somewhat. "It's okay," he repeated firmly. Then, "Can I touch you?" He watched as James seemed to force down the lump in his throat. Barely a moment had passed before he granted him permission with a nod of his head.

First things first, John coaxed the phone from his grip and slipped it into his own back pocket. James let go of it surprisingly easily. Almost as if he hadn't been aware of just how tightly he had been holding onto it until now. John then grazed his palms up his arms until he was cradling the man's face. He stroked his thumb over the stubble on his cheek, being careful to keep the press of his hands light enough so that he didn't feel trapped, but steady enough that he would feel anchored. Just as before James took hold of his wrists. His hands were clammy and the slight trembling of his fingers did not escape his notice.  
  
"I'm sorry." Now it was John's turn to apologize. James' grip tightened just enough to acknowledge that he had heard him. After a moment those green eyes closed and he nuzzled against his palm. "Did you take your medicine?"  
  
Another nod. When James took in his next breath it nearly sounded like a gust of wind. His whole body seemed to tremble with it. "D-Didn't work," he struggled.  
  
A frown pulled at John's lips. He still had some Vicodin left in his pocket. Though he'd never admit it aloud, considering the circumstances he had been using more than usual this past week. Worst case scenario he could offer James a few.. Then again, that would likely only lead to a conversation he certainly didn't wish to have. John continued to stroke James' cheeks with gentle touches, yet it didn't take long before he noticed the framed diploma hanging on the wall directly behind them. The name printed in scrawling letters at its center did not belong to James, but was one that he recognized nonetheless. _Thomas Hamilton._

 _Oh._  
  
"Come on." John coaxed the man from the room as gingerly as he possibly could. Unfortunately the task proved to be much more difficult than he had originally anticipated. While James had been restless with panic-induced energy not minutes earlier he now seemed to be frozen in place. Eventually he was able to guide James out into the hall and promptly closed the office door behind them. Almost immediately he could sense the tension that left James' body, as slight as it was. Still, it was a step in the right direction. Yet it didn't last long. Just as he thought James was beginning to settle a new wave of panic seemed to wrack through him. "Breathe," John reminded him.

James only shook his head as he leaned back against the wall. "I can't--"  
  
"Yes, you can," he assured. Fingers threaded through those copper locks before settling at the nape of James' neck. He placed his other hand lightly against his stomach. "Breathe in through your belly. Slowly." Though his body continued to shake like a leaf James headed his instructions as best as he could. Soon enough the hand that rested against his abdomen began to raise at a slow, steady place, and not long after he began to calm.

James pressed his forehead against his own. "I'm sorry," he murmured. Despite the steadiness that was now present in his voice, he still sounded lost. Wrecked and broken.

"It's okay, James."  
  
He only shook his head. "I should have called you-- I wanted to.. I'm sorry--"  
  
" _James_." This time John titled his head upwards until their eyes met. James' gaze was still wild, his eyes widened and glassy. " _It's okay_ ," he assured him gently. "It's okay."  
  
James trembled as he released a series of pent-up breaths. Tears pricked at the corner of those green eyes as his hands raised so that he could entangle his fingers in John's dark locks. Despite the man was clearly seeking the comfort of physical contact, John was cautious as he pressed forward to draw him into an embrace. Instead of shrinking away like John was expecting he practically latched onto him. Those arms were warm and strong as they wrapped around him, the hold on his hair tightening ever so slightly as he was too pulled close. When he felt him burry his nose against his hair John released a steady breath.  
  
"It's okay." John continued to murmur those words again and again until they finally held some weight and James' form began to relax against his own. He knew for certain when the attack had finally passed. It wasn't when the last of the shivers had left James standing tall and steady, nor was it when his breathing had finally regained its slow and steady rhythm. It wasn't even when the erratic pounding of his heart took on to a gentler pace that matched his own. No, it wasn't until James' mouth pressed against his own that he knew he was alright at last. Even so, John was hesitant as he returned it. It was gentle, chaste. Reassuring.

James swallowed lightly as he pulled away by mere inches. "I am sorry, John," he murmured once more. This time when he spoke there was no fear in his tone of voice or even his eyes, only guilt. Gently he stroked his cheek before placing a kiss against his forehead. "I understand if you.. don't want to. If I fucked this up too badly, but..." The man closed his eyes as he struggled to take a steadying breath.  
  
John decided to do him a favor and interjected. "Don't worry," he assured him with his usual smirk. "You can make it up to me later."  
  
Thosw eyes seemed to shine as James nodded with a sigh of relief. "Thank you, John..." Fingers moved through his hair to gently massage the base of his neck. "I _am_ sorry. Truly.."  
  
John rolled his eyes. "Stop apologizing."  
  
"Sorry.."

While John angled a glare at the man, it immediately fell flat upon noticing the small grin that had graced his lips. It was beautiful, just like the rest of him. "You alright now?" he asked, just to be sure. Despite the reassuring nod, John could see the exhaustion that was beginning to weigh on him. He remembered all too well the overwhelming fatigue that soon followed after an attack. The way every part of you felt completely drained, like there was nothing left but the heavy weight of an outer shell.  
  
"You should get some sleep..." John suggested. He cleared his throat then as he reached up to scratch the back of his head. "Mind if I crash on your couch? Think it's a little too late to try and catch a cab."  
  
"Of course.."  
  
Despite the clear conversation, it seemed neither of them were content to do anything other than share the same bed that evening. James' eyes were warm and welcoming despite the unease that bubbled underneath, and when he guided John towards what must be the bedroom, he followed. John allowed the man some privacy as he changed into a fresh pair of clothes by turning his back. Instead he toed off his boots before sitting against the bed to remove his prosthetic. He allowed his gaze to wander over the room as he did so, taking in the tidiness and the lack of personal items with that calculating gaze he always found so difficult to ignore. Yet when he felt the mattress shift he was grateful to be pulled free from his thoughts. He set their phones aside on the nightstand along with the spare key before rolling over onto his side. James was laying on his back not far from him. Even in the darkness he could see the tension that remained in the man's form, and how it eventually began to lessen as he released a steady breath. Hesitantly John reached out to give his hand a gentle squeeze. Those warm fingers didn't hesitate before clasping around his own.  
  
"Thank you..." James voice was soft, the man apparently beginning to succumb underneath the weight of his exhaustion.  
  
"You're welcome.."


	12. You're Too Sweet

James wasn't exactly sure what was it that had come over him these past couple of days. That evening he spent with John and his friends was perhaps the most he had enjoyed himself in recent months. Even his Christmas with Miranda had been more of a solemn encounter than anything else. While the two of them had spent hours catching up properly before delving into their old  patterns of friendly debate, most of the night and following day had been spent reminiscing over Thomas. How an entire year had managed to pass them by since his death, he had no idea. More often than naught it felt as though the accident had occurred only yesterday. Miranda was still grieving their loss, yes, but she had recovered enough of her strength to step back into the world and reclaim her life with both hands. While there was no doubting the strides he had made in his own recovery the struggle was far from over. He may have finally worked past his apparent aim to drink himself into an early grave, but the guilt and sorrow that had led to such a desire in the first place persisted.

However, ever since John had so abruptly entered his life, those feelings began to dissipate, slowly yet surely. Though subtle at first there was no doubt that the musician had a positive effect on him. The more time they spent in one another's company, the quieter the voices lurking at the back of his mind became. Then one day James didn't hear them at all. The fervent whispers of, "it's your fault" and "you don't deserve it" had all but disappeared, leaving little but that ever-present anxiety left in their wake. It was the closest he had come to achieving peace in quite some time. And it was when he met with John and his friends for New Year's, he finally managed to obtain more than just a glimpse. He had laughed and smiled, he had felt  _happy._

More notably, James had encountered that familiar pull that extended from his chest to the pit of his stomach. That deeply seated urge that could only be associated not with simple friendly affection, but lust. The desire to taste and to touch, to claim. It was something that he had not felt in quite some time. There was no mistaking that James was drawn to John, that he had been from the very beginning, but to finally be able to push pass the torrent of fear and guilt that had kept his desire at bay... That was something entirely new. Yet the way John's lips had felt so perfect against his own only served to sooth the unease that had followed.

At least to a point.

It didn't take long for James to be overcome by the sense of panic he had managed to evade the night before. In fact, it seemed to catch up with him all at once. The guilt of harboring feelings for another man, the fear that in doing so he was turning his back on Thomas and his memory. The blame that weighed on his so heavily since the car accident and the self-loathing he felt for finally, _finally_ wanting to move on and allow himself some happiness.

The rest of the week had melded into a bleak haze, one that he thankfully remembered very little of. What he did remember was the drinking, the hangovers, the recurring panic attacks. He recalled listening to John's messages and reading his texts only to leave them to go unanswered. All except for one. When John's voice sounded after the beep it captured his attention immediately. The voicemails he had previously left were short and conveyed unease and concern. This one was angry, and rightfully so. The lateness of the hour wasn't lost on him either, nor was the slight slurring of the man's words.  
  
James was pacing throughout Thomas' old study just as he had been for the past few hours. As he listened to John's tirade, only able to comprehend every few words through the panic tearing through him, he glanced up at the clock on the wall. 11pm... John was likely still at Nassau's. The group usually finished their last set for the night around 10:30pm. Another trembling breath shook from his lungs.  
  
_John was close by..._  
  
"I knew this was going to happen," John was saying. "I knew it... Every time this happens.. FUCK! Fine, fine. I get it. I'm an invalid, a freak. I get it. It's.." a sigh, "Fine..."

Green eyes widened when he heard those words and when the line went dead his heart practically arrested in his chest. John thought the had caused this. Because of his injury... James didn't waste a second before grabbing his phone from the desk and hitting the callback button. He needed to explain himself, to apologize. To make John know that this had nothing to do with him, that it was because of his own unresolved issues. His--

James wasn't exactly sure why he was so shocked when John answered after only two rings. As he listened to John's biting words he suddenly realized he was at a loss for words. What could he possibly offer to rectify this? _Should_ he, or should he simply let this end here in the hope of preventing further heartache later on? When he heard John release an irate huff he came back to his senses.  
  
"I'm sorry," James desperately blurted out. Even now the adrenaline from his latest panic attack was still thrumming through him, making his hands shake and his throat close tightly around his words. He couldn't catch his breath, not until John spoke those next words:  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
Even now the man was concerned for him. Why? _Why?_ After dodging his calls, ignoring his texts... even standing him up for another date. What could possibly warrant such care?

The mess of qustions and doubt twirling within his mind were suddenly swept away by the overwhelming roar of voices, all fervently whispering the same thing: _Whatever it is, you don't deserve it._

James didn't remember the rest of their conversation. Not the words that were spoken or even how long it had lasted. All that stuck in his mind was that even after the line went dead the phone remained clutched in his hand. His grip was tight, almost painfully so, as he held fast to that thread that linked himself to John. His lifeline. Then, before he knew it, John was here. He was _here._ He felt John's hands on his arm, his shoulders, cradling his face. Just as before they were warm, steadying, secure. Those blue eyes were just as bright as they had always been. A lighthouse on a rocky shore that so effortlessly guided him back from the torrid waters of the sea. John's voice was soft and kind as he soothed him again and again with tender words. Its calming tone was the last thing James was aware of before he fell asleep, the man's hand clasped lightly in his own.

...

When James stirred the next morning, he did so slowly. Despite having slept peacefully through the entire night for the first time in days, he was exhausted. The events of the night before had been taxing to say the least; and not just for him, but for John as well. Yet the moment his eyes took in the sleeping form beside him that was all but forgotten. John was lying on his stomach with his arms curled up beneath the pillow pressed against his face. His dark curls were nothing less than a mess. He was the very definition of bed head, the tresses sticking out at odd angles here and there from a night of tossing and turning. A few thick locks hung in his face while the rest spilled down his shoulders. The bedsheets were in a similar state of disarray as they were tangled around him haphazardly.

James could only gaze fondly upon him. With unusually confident fingers he reached out to tuck a few stray curls behind his ear. While the touch was light it was enough to rouse John from his sleep nonetheless. A soft hum passed his lips as John stretched out, not unlike a cat in the sun. Those blue eyes peered over at him not moments later and a smirk pulled at his lips.

"Morning," John murmured before stifling a yawn. "Better now..?"

James simply hummed. Fingers moved to thread through that dark hair before gently massaging the base of his neck. He swallowed lightly as he thought over his next words. "John--"

The man released a frustrated cry as he let his head fall back against the pillow. "Fucking hell," John swore with a good-natured glare. "Say 'I'm sorry' one more time and I'm going to kill you," he grumbled, his voice still rough from sleep.

A faint smirk curled at the edge of James' mouth. "Actually, I was just going to ask if you wanted pancakes."

John rolled his eyes. "Right," he said with a snort. He then fell silent as he seemed to contemplate something. "Do you have blueberries?" he asked.

"I'm sure that I can find some."

"And cinnamon?"

James' lips twitched upwards. "Of course."

John hummed his approval. "Fine," he agreed. "Consider this past week made up for, then." Despite the light tone of voice, James' expression faltered. This didn't escape John's notice for he swiftly leaned forward to place a soothing kiss against his lips. "Really, it's okay..." he assured him once they had separated.

James only managed a nod before kissing the man's forehead.A torrent of thoughts and questions were brewing within his mind. Why was he so quick to forgive him? How could he be so understanding? Was it really that simple...? Instead, he asked something innocent and completely unrelated. "Do you want whipped cream, too?"

John's face immediately lit up. "Fuck yes!"

James smiled. "I'll see what I can do," he promised and slipped out of bed. As he dressed for the day, he felt John's eyes boring into him with a strength that sent a flush of heat down his neck and chest. When he finally turned around John was smirking up at him playfully.

"I'll be down in a few," John offered with another mewling yawn. He didn't wait for a response before his face plopped back against the pillows.

...

James' feet padded softly on the cold tile as he moved about the kitchen. The pancake mix and blueberries were the easiest to find. Unfortunately, by the time he found the syrup and other fixens buried in the pantry, he had already burned a few of the pancakes. He had just started waving a towel up towards the smoke alarm, praying that it would stay silent, when he heard a snort from behind him.

"Jesus, and I thought _I_ couldn't cook."

When James turned, he found John smirking mischievously at him. His hair was even more of a mess than it had appeared to be in bed. However, James' eyes were quickly drawn downward towards the prosthetic that peeked out beneath his pant leg.

John quickly noticed where his gaze had shifted and that coy smirk immediately faltered before disappearing altogether. In fact, his entire stance seemed to bend under the invisible weight of that stare.

"What?" John asked uneasily.

Only then did James realize just what he was doing. "I'm sorry," he stammered, suddenly feeling a flush of embarrassment and shame. He then gestured towards his false leg. "I just... That's a different model than the one you wore at New Years, right? The one Muldoon was working on?" 

John seemed to calm upon realizing the purpose behind James' apparent ogling. He scratched the back of his neck as he nodded. Again that smirk graced his lips, though it was somewhat strained.

"Oh, yeah.. Muldoon insisted he hang onto it until it's finished," John offered with a light chuckle. "Seems to think I'll muck up all his hard work if left to my own devices."

James nodded, fidgeting a bit as he turned his attention back to the pancakes. "I shouldn't have stared, I apologize." As he spoke he prepared the first plate, drizzling a small stack of pancakes with syrup before adding the butter, cinnamon, and whipped cream.

The only reply he got was a shrug as John crossed the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter. His hands rested in his lap, his thumbs twiddling nervously before James offered him the plate as a better alternative. Even then he picked at the breakfast instead of actually eating it.

"Are you sure it's okay?" John asked with a glance. "That it doesn't bother you..? The leg, I mean."

James' mouth turned downward in a frown. "Of course it doesn't bother me." The man didn't seem too convinced and instead turned his attention back to picking apart the syrup-drenched pancakes. "John," James tried again. This time when he spoke he stepped right before him so that he could better hold his attention. "You are beautiful. All of you, just like this."

James didn't miss the flush of color that darkened John's cheeks at his words. What was even more noteworthy was the genuine smile that spread across his face and the way his eyes lit up. Moments later he felt legs lock around his hips and jerk him closer.

John's arms moved to rest over his shoulders as he smirked at him. "Oh?" he asked coyly. "What else?"

James only returned that smile as he shifted closer between his knees. He set the plate aside from where it had been precariously balanced on John's lap before carefully resting his hands against that slender waist. "You're intelligent and witty," the ginger offered after a moment. "Kind.. Not to mention incredibly patient. You amaze me every time I see you, John."

The words had just barely left his mouth before John's lips came crashing against his own. James fell silent all at once, his lips parting willingly from the drag of the other's tongue along his lower lip. Though their teeth all but clacked together from the fervency of it he felt no pain. Instead, the only thing he could focus on was the way John's fingernails scraped against his scalp, the way his fingers curled tightly in his hair.

They had kissed before, not just once but twice, but this time... This time it felt distinctly different. There was no rush, no anxiety, no buildup. No hesitation. Rather there was only sweetness and understanding, their movements only becoming more desperate from the lust that smoldered beneath the surface. It was as though sparks had finally burst forth to a roaring flame, one that would be exceedingly hard to extinguish.

James wasn't quite sure which of them it was that finally broke the kiss. Then again it didn't much matter as it was necessary. They both panted heavily in an effort to regain their breaths, John's fingers still entwined in his hair while his own hand had moved to cup the side of his face.

Those blue eyes were clouded with a haze James readily recognized. But before he could say anything he was interrupted by the shrill wail of the smoke alarm. He drew away immediately with a string of curses, only then smelling the burning batter that sent smoke curling towards the ceiling. John's laughter was unmistakable as James rushed to turn off the stove top and open a window, once again waving the dish towel about to circulate the air. Eventually the alarm finally fell silent.

When James turned, John was still sitting atop the counter, that goofy grin plastered across his face. "Here," John offered as he held out his fork. While he had been busy trying to turn off that annoying alarm, John had cut his stack of pancakes in half. "I can share."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thank-you's to rainbowish_unicorn for editing! :)


	13. With You, It's Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2jshgx)

After James successfully cleared the kitchen from the worst of the offending smoke and tossed out what pancakes he had ruined, he joined John where he was still perched atop the counter and gladly shared the breakfast that was offered to him. As these ones weren't charred black they actually tasted quite good. Sticky with syrup and sweet from the blueberries and cinnamon. While James certainly wasn't an esteemed chef he did know how to cook. And even if he didn't it was fairly difficult to mess up premixed pancake batter. He had just gotten a little distracted, that was all. It was an excuse John accepted with a hearty laugh as he sucked a bit of whipped cream from his thumb.

As the hours passed it eventually became clear that John was in no rush to leave. Whether that was due to a prolonged concern over James' state of mind or if he was simply enjoying the comforts of being elsewhere, he had no idea. Not that it much mattered. James was perfectly content to let the man stay as long as he wished. This house had been empty for far too long. With John here the place seemed so much brighter. Open, warm and welcoming, just as a home ought to be. And so, John didn't ask if he should stay and James didn't request for him to go. Instead they spent hours lost in conversation just as they had done so many times before. The way John laughed and smiled made it seem as though the past week had only been a trick of his imagination. Where was the anger, the hurt? When James once again apologized, not just for withdrawing so suddenly but for actually standing him up on a date, he finally,  _finally_ caught a glimpse of genuine emotion on his face. Yet mere seconds later it had disappeared beneath the mask created by that bright smile.

"It's alright, really," John assured him. However, the way he picked at his cuticles with his thumbnail as he spoke betrayed his unease. "Just... Next time this happens, just tell me, yeah? Really. If for no other reason than to keep me from being an ass and making it worse." Just like Miranda, and just like Thomas when he was still alive, John seemed to only acknowledge his concern for his well being instead of his selfish actions. And so with a heavy nod, James finally allowed the topic to fade away to the edge of his mind where the rest of his guilt restlessly lurked.

Between the hours of conversation and even later when they simply enjoyed the soothing silence of one another's company, James felt as though he came to learn quite a bit more about John. Nothing weighted like the stories of his past in the foster care system or the accident that took his leg, but little things. His likes and dislikes as well as the little ticks, quirks, and habits that he had perhaps been too riddled with anxiety to notice before. It didn't help that John possessed quite the penchant for small talk. This was something most people seemed to struggle with, yet John took to it effortlessly. He could take a topic as mundane as the weather and turn it into an interesting conversation that was actually worth having. James had realized early on that the man had a knack for storytelling. No matter what he said he would hang on to his every word, and small talk was no exception. It was something he normally tried to avoid at all costs, but talking with John... That came effortlessly. It felt as though he was an old friend that he had known for several years, instead of just a few weeks.

The first thing James came to appreciate was John's ease and comfort with close physical contact. He himself had never been an overly "touchy-feely" person, not even with Thomas or Miranda. Over the past year his discomfort around others within close quarters worsened to the point of triggering their own episodes of panic. John was always cautious when it came to touching him, almost as if he knew. He was slow, gentle and considerate, but at the same time it never kept him from gently pushing the edges of his boundaries. Even since the beginning John would not shy away from extending some sort of contact. Whether it was a slight tug on his sleeve, the lingering brush of his fingers, or those hands that cradled his jaw as John guided him through a panic attack. Now they had begun to share more tender, purposeful touches. A stroke of the other's cheek, a gentle kiss, a comforting embrace. One that served to ground James to the present in a way that no one else could, making him feel both small and too large for this world all at once. Those arms were his tether, his anchor; holding him stead and firm.

But it was not just that. When John spoke about something he was so clearly passionate about, such as his music, he would draw so close that James could practically feel the energy buzzing beneath his skin. He would speak with his hands with as much exuberance as he did with his words. It was endearing. The way the blue of his irises seemed to almost dance as he spoke, alight with unabated enthusiasm and so perfectly matching the warm smile on his face.

While James was well aware that John was a smoker, it wasn't until now that he realized just how often he indulged in the unhealthy habit. Perhaps it was due to the fact that when John usually lit up in the past they were already outside. Now that the man was constantly excusing himself to go out onto the patio it was much more obvious. Not that James was one to judge, of course. He had smoked for several years, and while he had cut back in recent months he was certain he would never truly quit. In fact, James joined him outside for a few of his breaks, bumming a few cigarettes off of him in exchange for letting him use his lighter. He had good taste, too. Newports; nice and smooth.

John apparently also possesses a deep-rooted love for Pulp Fiction. While James had settled down on the end of the couch with a book in his lap for some light reading, John had taken it upon himself to flip through the channels on his tv. He stumbled across the older film within minutes and practically balked when James admitted to never having seen it. The movie was perhaps halfway through, but no matter. John caught him up on the plot with ease, his hands moving in a flurry as he spoke about the different scenes and characters with palpable enthusiasm. While he had never been too interested in television, movies or otherwise, he certainly enjoyed the way Silver lit up as he spoke so vibrantly about it. And so, by the time John finally redirected his attention towards the tv, James merely watched him. He peered over the edge of his opened book, carefully taking note of every smile that rose at the corner of the man's lips.

Truthfully, the thought of lunch didn't even cross James' mind until John was clutching at his stomach and playfully whining from hunger. With a chuckle he granted him free range of his kitchen, only for John to point out how pitifully bare his fridge was.

"You know there's a grocery store about a block from here?" John called out from where he was hunched behind the opened door. When James didn't answer those blue eyes peeked over at him.

James only scratched at the back of his head. "Uhm... Yeah, I know," he answered awkwardly. "I usually walk there, so I can never buy too much at once."

"Taxi?"

James swallowed before shaking his head. "I try to avoid them when possible."

John frowned with a single brow arched. He didn't ask why as the answer was obvious enough. "Damn," was all he said after a moment. Apparently he took notice of the tension swiftly beginning to move through James' form, for he offered a swift apology. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."

James waved it off good naturedly. "It's alright," he murmured with a half smile.

John shifted on his feet a bit before reaching back into the fridge and pulling out a jar of peanut butter. Fingers toyed with the lid as he appeared to think over his next words carefully. "Have you driven at all since the accident?"

James shook his head once again. "What about you?"

John smirked. "Yeah. Could never afford a car, but Muldoon let's me drive his sometimes." He chuckled as he grabbed a spoon from the drawer and scooped up a mound of peanut butter. "Even let me help fix 'er up, too. Quite a beauty." He chuckled then. "Fortunate that you only need a right leg to drive, huh?"

Despite John's attempt at his usual antics, he could clearly see the weariness that wavered beneath the depths of those crystalline blue eyes. It seemed that just as John had skirted past his defenses to reach the man beneath, he too was beginning to see behind the practiced mask. John's injury bothered him. He could make his jokes and offer those convincing smiles, but he knew better. _Now_ he knew better.

"Did you want to take a look at mine?" James questioned after a moment. He wasn't sure just how deep John's interest in cars ran, but he desperately needed to break the growing tension and wasn't quite sure how. To his surprise that goofy grin spread across John's face. Bright and genuine. 

"Definitely!"

James grabbed his keys from the ledge before showing John out to the small garage. As with the other homes in this area, it was hidden around back and connected to a small drive. James did his best to focus on the crisp breeze that bit against his face instead of the way he turned the keys nervously between his fingers. The garage door was nearly frozen shut and required a firm knock with his foot to come open. Miranda had been the only one to come back here and, as she had moved out months ago, the wooden door hadn't been opened all winter. James reached blindly out along the wall before finally managing to find the light switch. It flickered on almost lazily.

John emitted a low whistle. "Fuck, and I thought Muldoon's car was old."

James couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips. "In my defense, she never failed me in all the time I had her." As he spoke he reached out to smooth his hand over the paint, the color of rust. He shouldn't have been so surprised by the amount of dust that coated the thing.

"Well, she is in good condition," John mused. "Mind if I check out how she sounds?"

James' hesitation was fleeting before he handed over the keys. He truly hadn't driven since the accident; a large part of him doubted John's ability to get her started. Yet sure enough, after a second twist of the key the engine turned over and came to life with a low hum.

John grinned widely. "Fuck, just listen to her purr.." he murmured, his hand sliding over the dashboard almost as if he were petting a cat. Then he moved to buckle his seat belt. "Come on, get in."

James' expression immediately faltered. He felt the way the air left his lungs, the way his jaw became stiff, causing him to practically force out his next words. "What?"

John's own countenance had shifted slightly. Like that first afternoon in the coffee house he was now looking at him with that calm, calculating gaze. One that he now knew stemmed from genuine understanding. 

"Come on," John coaxed again. "You need something other than peanut butter and liquor in your fridge."

James' eyes searched John's face carefully before moving over the car. He could feel the way his fingernails were digging into his palm, biting the skin hard enough to leave little crescent marks behind.

"James.."

That voice brought James back from the brewing torrent of anxiety and he swallowed. "I have jam in there, too..."

A small smile curled at the edge of the musician's mouth. "Okay," he resigned. "Something other than liquor and assorted sandwich spreads." When he didn't answer he tried again. "James, it'll be alright. I promise." Then, "Do you trust me?"

James didn't answer; not verbally, at least. Instead he shifted slightly before finally making up his mind. With a firm nod he shoved the persistent uncertainty to the back of his mind before circling the car and climbing in the passenger seat. John shot him a kind smile as he got situated beside him. Though James had ridden with Charles and Miranda several times, it had been a while. Not to mention he had known both of them for years. There was a cemented layer of trust there that he and John were still forming. But he would trust him. He wanted to.

Despite what he had maybe initially expected, his faith in John was not misguided. While he was fairly certain that John may be a bit more... loose with his driving when alone or among his other friends, but with him he was perfectly responsible. In fact, in took only a few minutes for James to grow confident enough to release his tight grip on the edge of the seat. Fortunately John took no offense to his obvious discomfort. Rather, he offered small, reassuring smiles and flipped on the music to provide some sort of distraction.

The drive was a short one, and while James had relaxed a good measure he still had to fight to keep the anxiety at bay. He took deep, quiet breaths, just as Mr. Scott had taught him. In through the nose, hold for a few seconds, then out the mouth. When John's hand came down over his own he nearly leaped out of his skin. They were there.

"Sorry," James murmured before John could say it himself. He offered a sheepish smile that was easily returned.

"See? That wasn't so bad," John murmured after he stepped out and locked the door behind them. When he started to hand over the keys James shook his head and motioned that he could hang on to them. The musician pocketed them with a shrug. When he reached out again, this time it was for _him._ John took his hand in his own as they walked, his thumb lightly grazing over his palm before intertwining their fingers. That was how they entered the grocery store, and that was how they stayed. The entire time James could feel that simmering heat that flushed his cheeks and settled deep into his belly. John surely noticed it, for his smile only grew.

John's idea of nutrition was truly laughable. Just like a child he gravitated right towards the chips, sweets, and other junk food. However, he did succeed at least in getting James to think about, well, actually _eating_. He used to cook all the time. But now, more often than naught, he simply snacked or grabbed a lunch from the cafe instead of actually preparing a meal. But tonight would be different. He wanted to cook a proper meal not just for himself, but for John as well. It was the least he could do. Besides, he needed to silence John's laughter about the burnt pancakes once and for all.

"Do you want ham for dinner?" James asked absentmindedly as he scanned over what they had already piled into a shopping cart. Seasonings, lentils, flour, pastas, and other cooking staples.

John made a choking sound. "Dear god, no," he replied with a repulsed shudder.  
  
James only smirked. "Really hate pork, huh?"

"Not really... Just," John smirked slightly as he shook his head. "I tried cooking one last Christmas, and Muldoon and I were sick for days with food poisoning. Haven't been able to even smell it since."  
  
"Chicken?"  
  
John tilted his head and hummed as he seemed to consider it. "That's fine," he finally agreed.

James smiled softly before kissing those dark curls. Even if he wanted to he couldn't deny how incredibly light he felt right now. Even here in this crowded market he felt no anxiety. Instead all he could sense was the thrumming warmth that spread from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. It seemed that he was beginning to feel like this more and more, and always when John was with him. To his pleasant surprise, this usual ease of mind continued late into the evening. He felt no unease during the short ride home and even spent it in idle chatter instead of tense silence. John sat at the table flipping through his most recent photos, the two of them continuing their discussions of music and art, while James prepared them both a hearty dinner of chicken and stuffed potatoes. Just as he hoped, John ate every bit with gusto and promised to never tease him about his cooking ever again. And hours later when they both fell into bed, they did so just as naturally as the night before.


	14. The Things I Do

When James awoke in the middle of the night he did so with a start. With the familiar pounding heartbeat and racing thoughts that always accompanied his nightmares. The thin sheen of sweat cooled rapidly against his skin as he sat up from beneath the covers. The dampness had caused his t-shirt and sweats to cling close to his body and only chilled him further. Green eyes opened as he fought to release a slow, steady breath. In and out, in and out.

 _It was just a nightmare..._ James tried to remind himself. Unfortunately the silent mantra did little to deter the memories running rampant through his head. He could still hear the sick crunch of twisting metal and breaking plastic replaying in his mind with a cruel clarity. The clink of broken glass as it fell against the pavement, the sirens wailing in the distance...

 _Stop._ Fingers combed through his mussed hair almost desperately, gripping the sweat-dampened locks in a tight fist as he wrestled the thoughts from his mind. _Stop._ He didn't want to dwell on this anymore. _It wasn't your fault_. These words had been uttered by so many different people over the past year. By Miranda, Gates, Charles and Jack, this therapist... Everyone. Yet it wasn't until he spoke these words to himself that they finally seemed to carry any weight. _It wasn't my fault_....

James released another steadying breath as his heart eventually began to settle in his chest. It wasn't until he had finally regained some semblance of control over his thoughts that he realized he was alone. The right side of the bed John had fallen asleep on, not just once but twice, lay empty. The sheets were cool to the touch and his prosthetic was also missing from where it had been leaned against the wall. He was, however, provided a shred of comfort. John's wallet and cellphone resting atop the nightstand were proof enough that he hadn't wandered far.

When James found him he was standing out on the small back porch. He was bundled up in James' coat and knit scarf, his hands stuffed into the pockets as he stared up at the twinkling expanse of stars in the cloudless sky. Despite his quiet approach, John wasn't startled in the least when he spoke up and broke him out of his reverie.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

When John angled his body around to glance at him he was smirking. "Yeah," he answered with a chuckle. His warm breath formed a cloud the moment it hit the crisp winter air. "Just needed to step out for a smoke."

Due to the lateness of the hour, James didn't recall seeing his lighter and pack of cigarettes on the counter when he moved passed the den. Even now he didn't notice the way John's pupils were abnormally dilated even for the moonlit darkness that surrounded him. The way his eyes were glossy and how his gaze seemed to be far off in the distance. The exhaustion and fatigue brought about by his nightmare had made him weary, and focused only on John returning with him to bed.

John, however, was able to see that something was troubling him. " _You_ okay?"

James offered a shallow shrug. "Bad dream," he answered simply. John hummed as he drew close and slinked his arms around his waist. When their lips met the kiss was soft and warm. The heat from John's body all but melted away the frigid air that surrounded them. Even now James was so preoccupied with that tender embrace, with the movement of their lips, that he didn't notice the distinct taste of cigarettes was missing from John's tongue. He didn't notice any of these things. Instead, when they finally broke apart James found himself chasing after that smart mouth. The instinctive advance only caused John's smirk to widen.  
  
"Come on.." John coaxed with a gentle tug against the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Before you get a cold."

When they returned upstairs John seemed to fumble a bit when it came to removing the prosthetic. His movements were slow, clumsy. He could only wonder if he had he slept at all.

"May I?" James asked cautiously with a gesture towards the leg. John nodded. A soft mewling yawn passing his lips as he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. As James knelt down beside the bed he thought back to New Years. He remembered the way Billy had removed the boot and did his best to follow suite. Though that familiar yet disconcerting numbness was beginning to  spread up from his fingertips, he did his best to ignore it to instead focus on the task at hand. His movements were gentle as he slid the prosthetic free from the stump, treating it as if though it was still fresh and painful, and rolled down the sock worn beneath it. He was leaning both back against the nightstand when he felt those arms twist loosely around his neck. Dull fingernails scraped lightly against his scalp before moving down to settle at the base of his neck. When James glanced upwards those crystalline blue eyes were boring into him.

James swallowed down the lump that was quickly forming in his throat and drew away. There it was again, that heavy twang in his chest that caused his heartbeat to skip several times over. It was not an unpleasant or unwelcome sensation in the least, but rather stirred up feelings of warmth and familiarity. Yet in this moment it was overwhelming.

Even so, the moment James climbed back into bed John shuffled over to curl up against his chest. He all but nuzzled into the crook of his neck, those dark curls tickling his chin as his soft breath huffed out against his skin in a contented sigh. James forced passed the nervous tension trying to stiffen his form and instead wrapped his arms around the other man. He could feel the stretch of a smile against his neck as John hummed and wiggled a bit closer. Even though there was barely a breadth of space between them he found that he didn't mind. In fact it felt... nice. James released a slow breath before burying his nose into that mop of ebony hair. Fingertips trailed lightly along John's arm, tracing out small patterns until they both eventually drifted back into sleep's embrace.

* * *

Warm sunlight streamed in through the thin curtains that draped over the windows. James sucked in a deep breath as he stirred, rolling onto his side and slowly blinking the sleep from his eyes. Once again the bed beside him was empty. This time, however, the cause was immediately apparent from the sound of the shower running. James had just sat up and was stretching his muscles when the water stopped. Suddenly he could hear the muted lilt of John humming an unfamiliar tune. Moments later he emerged from the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair wet and dripping down his shoulders. He must have not been very subtle in his staring for the man grinned widely at him.

"Like what you see?" John asked teasingly. It was an exact mirror of the words he first spoke to him those few months ago at the bar.

 James tried to swallow down his embarrassment. Instead he merely felt the flush of heat expand from his cheeks down his neck. Still, his gaze held steady. John was an absolute sight. He always was, but like this... Fuck. He couldn't help the way his eyes seemed to follow the drops of water that fell from his curls to drip down his chest and abdomen. Though John was certainly thin he was also surprisingly lean. The planes of his body were tanned from sunlight and radiated with a similar warmth. Soon enough that cord leading to something deep within his gut was pulled taut. It took mere moments for him to recognize it for what it was: Lust. Fortunately John's voice interrupted his thoughts before it could strengthen to the point of awakening the length between his legs.  
  
"I hope you don't mind." Despite the hungry nature of James' stare, John began to shift beneath the weight of it nonetheless. Uncertainty shown on his features just as it had the morning before.

"Not at all," James assured him sheepishly. Something occurred to him then. _Oh._ "You can barrow some more clothes from the dresser, too," he added.  
  
John's smile returned with a nod. He didn't waste any time in pulling out a fresh pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt from the first drawer he opened. And just like that he began to get dressed, barely so much as turning his back before letting the towel drop to the floor below.

James tore his gaze away before retreating to the bathroom with a speed he wasn't aware he was capable of. "I'll be down soon," he called out just as the door shut sharply behind him. As he sagged back against the wood he could distinctly hear a chuckle. _That little shit..._ There was no doubting the physical attraction that reverberated between them. It had existed since the beginning,  though he wouldn't dare admit it even now. And even if he did, he would do so begrudgingly.

Their shared touches were always gentle and tender but little more. Even when John's fingers moved precariously low against the small of his back, or wandered a little too high up his leg, he was cautious. He didn't push; didn't press too firmly or too quickly. John almost treated him as though he were a frightened deer ready to scatter to the treeline. A part of him appreciated their unhurried pace; another much more primal part ached for something more. He recalled how long it had taken him to progress his physical relationship with Miranda and, ironically, how fast he had fallen into bed with Thomas. Perhaps with John he would discover something in-between. Something that was right not just for him, but for both of them. _  
_

James peeled off his clothes before hopping into the shower himself. The water was always kept hot enough to clear his mind of any troubling thoughts about the day ahead. Now, however, his mind was not so easy to settle. All he could think of was how John had just been in here. How he perhaps now carried the scent of vanilla after using his shampoo, not to mention his own scent after wrapping himself in his towel, wearing his clothes..

By the time James made it downstairs John had already helped himself to breakfast. He was bent over the kitchen table, his left leg extended as it usually was, munching on one of the colorful cereals he had picked out the day before.

"Any plans for today?" the ginger asked casually. He was painfully aware that their current arrangement, whatever it was, was temporary. John had merely rushed over to check on him and after finally coaxing him down from hours-long panic, had stayed the night. The fact that he had slept over the following night as well seemed coincidental at best. He wasn't expecting John to stay here forever, after all. No matter the fact that the thought seemed almost appealing at times.

John seemed to contemplate the question as he poked at the assortment of rainbow cornflakes with his spoon. "Not too sure," he finally offered. "Already downloaded a few apps on your phone for you. Ones that might help you relax a bit," he added in response to his confused expression. "You really need to change your password, mate."

James just snorted.

"Should probably text Muldoon too," John mused with a slight frown, his voice lowered almost as if he were talking to himself. "I left in quite a hurry the other night, and despite the bald head and tattoos, he worries quite a bit."

"Oh.. I'm sor--"

"Don't," John interrupted him with a threatening jab of his spoon.

Though James shook his head a faint smirk pulled at his lips. "Fine," he conceded. "What else?"

"Oh, I don't know.." John murmured with a twirl of his spoon. "I have a new song I'm supposed to be working on. Maybe after that I can snuggle up with you on the couch... Distract you from your reading for a bit. And if that goes well, maybe see if the carpet matches the drapes."

James choked on his cereal.

* * *

 

The morning passed by with the same ease as the one before it. After the two cleaned up from breakfast James settled down to read like he usually did in the mornings. While the thought of taking John on one his walks about the city with his camera in tow, he quickly thought better of it. John had told him that the injury was old and no longer pained him. Even so, a part of him still worried that any excessive or undue exercise could cause that to change. It was likely just the anxiety talking, but still.

While James read through his text John had once again curled up on the end of the couch. Only this time instead of enthusiastically reiterating the plot of Pulp Fiction he was actually... quiet. If he was being completely honest it was fascinating, although a bit odd. While he had not known the man an overly long time, this was perhaps the longest they had spent in comfortable silence. Not that it mattered much to James either way. He may have been the most reserved one when it came to Miranda and Thomas, but that didn't mean he enjoyed a hearty debate any less. In fact, he had even come to enjoy idle chit chat so long as it was with someone he found interesting. John was, of course, one of those people.

It was just interesting to finally see this different side of Silver. His legs were loosely crossed on the couch cushion and a small notepad rested in his lap, his phone balanced atop his knee. It was connected to his ear via a single earbud. The other was tucked into his shirt, but even now he could catch the faint tune that resonated from it. He held a pen in his hand, tapping it rhythmically against his thigh as his brows were knit in deep concentration. Every minute or so he would pause the track just long enough to jot down some lyrics before starting the recording over from the beginning.

It was an interesting method to say the least. While James knew next to nothing about music in general and even less when it came to composing, he eventually couldn't help but voice the question gnawing at the back of his mind. "Wouldn't you normally come up with the lyrics, then compose the melody around it?"

John grinned. "Normally, yes, but this is for The Ranger. Muldoon is a genius when it comes to sound but the words... Not so much." He laughed then. "He comes up with the cords, we all record a rough track, and then he gives me a rundown of the story he wants to tell. What emotion he's striving for in each section and so on. Usually it's just a general idea, like lost lovers, which is fine too. It's fun filling in the words.. It's almost like a puzzle."

James felt himself smile at his words. "What's this one about?" he asked, genuinely curious.

John tucked a loose curl behind his ear as he looked over his notepad. "This one is a bit more complicated as Muldoon could only come up with the word "conflict" for me to work off of. But with the different rise and fall of the chorus and the split instrumentals--" He paused abruptly when he noticed James' puzzled expression. "Uhm. Because of the melody," he reiterated, "I decided to revisit the 'lost lovers' idea we've played with before. Only this time they aren't separated by some heartbreak, but by time."

James arched a brow.

Though John's smirk widened, if he wasn't mistaken he detected a faint blush darkening his cheeks. "Okay, think about this," he proposed as he scooted forward with his legs still crossed. "Two lovers. Completely and utterly lost on one another, yeah? They see themselves as equals, two sides of the same coin; there's no one else closer to them in this world." John shrugged then. "They die tragically only to be reincarnated in a different time and place, separated, and just... Knowing that some piece of them is missing. Knowing that they need to search for the other without exactly knowing who it is they're looking for or why."

"Sounds... heartbreaking," James managed after a moment. His knuckles dragged against the stubble on his chin as he mulled over the idea.

John simply shrugged. "Hey. If Muldoon wants conflict, I'll give him fucking conflict." When James' gaze didn't seem to wander from his face, John smirked coyly. "What is it?" he asked."Am I appealing to the romantic in you?"

James scoffed. "I am not a romantic."

John almost seemed to pout though it was certainly just an attempt to get him flustered. "I thought the night we met was pretty special."

The man gave him an incredulous look. "I got caught staring at you, blatantly ignored you, then didn't accept the shot you sent me? You find that romantic?"

John snickered. "No, I mean the night we actually got to know each other."

"...I don't even remember what happened that night," James confessed with a frown.

Those blue eyes held a glint of amusement. "Yeah, you were pretty shit-faced."

James' thumb moved to spin his ring as he spoke. "What exactly was it that you found romantic?"

John had shifted slightly, his knee now lightly touching against his leg as he propped up his head on a crooked arm. "Well," he began slowly, suddenly thoughtful. "Everything, really. Granted it was only because you were drunk, but I finally got to meet the real you. You talked about photography, your literature, your job. We shared a plate of food," he added with a teasing smile. "And then I got to take you home and walk you to your door like any proper gentleman."

James could only snort at that. The musician was a myriad of things, amazing things, but "gentleman" was not one of them. "You actually enjoyed yourself?" he questioned.

"Oh, yes. After weeks of playing cat and mouse I finally got to meet the tall, mysterious ginger," John assured him a smirk on his lips and his brow playfully furrowed.

James returned his smile easily enough. "Well," he offered somewhat meekly after several moments, "I suppose I should thank you for being so stubborn."

"My pleasure.."

James wasn't exactly certain which of the two of them it was that first initiated contact. Then again it didn't much matter as soon any and all thoughts were sent scurrying from his mind. Instead he concentrated on how John's mouth was so wonderfully soft against his own. The way those lips parted, the tip of his tongue tracing along his lower lip in a silent request to push further. It was one James accepted without hesitation. Their mouths slotted together so perfectly, John's fingers gripping the front of his shirt as he pushed deeper, tentatively pressing down, searching and exploring with that velvet tongue.

When those perfect white teeth sank into his lower lip James released a barely audible groan. The sound was immediately lost in John's mouth. He could feel the other man smile against his lips as he pressed himself closer. A flush of heat expanded down his neck as John moved over him, his legs bracketing his sides as he effortlessly slid into his lap.

James' breath hitched at the bold maneuver, the kiss finally breaking as anxiety gripped his chest and he broke away with a dip of his head. His pulse had been pounding this entire time, but now it seemed much more noticeable.

John immediately stilled. "It's okay," he assured him as he leaned back to give him some room. "We can go slow, I don't mind."

James shook his head with a deep, grounding breath. "It's just been a while, is all," he offered softly.

"Do you want me to move?" he asked with a cocked brow.

James swallowed down the unease before shaking his head once again. "No... No, it's fine." Even though the sensation in his fingertips had been reduced to little more than a numb tingling, he didn't want to give into it. Not anymore. If John had taught him anything it was that amazing things could happen when he challenged the borders of his comfort zone.

Almost hesitantly James reached out to settle his hands against the man's slender waist. John relaxed beneath his touch, that soft curve of a smile on his lips, and simply allowed him to explore. He ran his thumb over the cut of hips, tracing along the bone before rubbing in small circles. His other hand wandered down his healthy leg, feeling the muscle beneath the Jean fabric. When his fingernails ghosted up his inner thigh John jerked above him. He was ticklish there, he realized with a playful smirk. When he glanced up John's gaze was cutting into him, the blue of his eyes reduced to a thin ring by his blown pupils.

When their mouths came together again there was a sense of urgency that hadn't existed before. James' grip tightened on that slender waist while John tangled his fingers into the copper locks of his hair. Their lips came together again and again in slow, languid movements, never separating for more than a few seconds to catch their breath.

They didn't even hear the knock against the door. When it sounded again they both paused, not quite breaking from their reverie until a key turned in the lock and the door opened.

"James?" Miranda called down the short hall.

James froze. What was she doing here? Before he could answer her, she rounded the corner to the den and stopped in her tracks. She tilted her head, a warm smile tugging at her lips as she crossed her arms and took in the sight before her. And a sight it certainly was. John was still straddling his lap and James' hair had been pulled free from its short ponytail. Despite that John didn't seem embarrassed, only amused, based off that wide grin.

"Miranda, nice to see you again," he chirped innocently.

James was trying to quell the flush if heat that surely darkened his cheeks. "What.." He shook his head before trying once more. "What are you doing here?"

Miranda raised a slender brow. "I'm here every Tuesday," she reminded him with that amused smile. "Lunch," she continued when James' confused expression didn't lessen. "Though I can see you must have forgotten."

  _It's Tuesday..? Shit._

Finally John managed some semblance of modesty as climbed out if his lap. At least now he could concentrate.. a little. Fingers raked through his hair. "Fuck," he muttered. "I'm sorry. This week has been..." Eyes closed as he gaze a slight shake of his head.

"Don't worry, James," Miranda laughed lightly. "We can reschedule. It's no trouble."

"No, stay."

Both turned to look at John in mild surprise. Though he didn't seem to have any plans to light up in the house, he had popped a cigarette between his teeth.

"Really. You two do this every week, yeah? I don't want to intrude more than I already have."

Fingers massaged the back of his neck as he thought. "Stay," James agreed, this time addressing the two of them. "I was actually about to cook us both lunch anyway."

Miranda shifted slightly on her feet. "You're cooking again?" she wondered after several moments. She sounded surprised.

James nodded, gesturing towards John. "--made me go to the grocery store," he mumbled beneath his breath.

"Well," Miranda smiled, "I'd love to. I've been wanting to get to know more about you anyway, Mr. Silver."

"John's fine," he smirked.

James took a minute to look between the two of them. They were both alike in so many ways... It was likely they get along perfectly. And based on the warm smile they were sharing, they both knew it, too. He could only hope this wouldn't end up as a terrible idea.

"Just gonna step out for a sec," John excused as he thumbed at the head of the lighter. He shot James a wink before slipping out to the back porch.

Once he and Miranda were alone James released a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. "I'm sorry," he murmured again as he reached back to return his hair to the small queue.  He then gestured towards the door. "We weren't--"

"James," she gently stopped him. "You don't need to explain yourself to me, you have nothing to defend... All I want is for you to be happy, and so would he. Now come on, let me help you get lunch started.

Minutes later James stood at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables and rinsing off chickpeas for a salad. Even so, he couldn't help but continue peering over at John and Miranda. The two sat at the kitchen table and were chatting away as if they were longtime friends. In John's case there was surprise. The man was the epitome of charisma and charm, even if he could be a little shit at times. After all, that winning smile had even eventually worn _him_ down. Miranda, however... Usually she always remained notably reserved when meeting new people. She was always kind and welcoming, yes, but also cautious. It was her way of discerning whether or not a person could be trusted, a way to measure their character. But now it seemed as though she had no reservations. Almost as if she trusted him based alone on the fact that James was taken with him.

By the time James set lunch down  on the table the conversation had drifted from art and literature to _him_. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure whether he should be flattered or frightened. 

"So, James used to cook?"

"All the time," Miranda assured him. "Usually meals such as this or big dinners, but sometimes he would make pastries as well. They were always so delicious..." Her smile became a bit sad then though it was fleeting, disappearing within mere seconds. "Thomas loved them. He made them for our anniversary."

James felt his muscles grow tense. "Miranda," he murmured, his low tone one of warning.

"Your anniversary?" John repeated. "The three of you?" Miranda smiled over her cup of tea as she gave a single nod.

While he had told him of his relationship with Thomas, he had left Miranda conveniently out of it. To be perfectly honest he wasn't entirely sure why. Even after learning that some of John's friends, one of which was Jack no less, were polyamorous, he wasn't sure how to breach the subject. Miranda must have assumed as much. And she was just as subtle about it as she was with everything.

Fortunately John didn't seem phased in the least. "Maybe he'll make them for me sometime," he proposed with a side glance and a genuine smile. "He made me pancakes the other morning, but he set off the fire alarm instead."

"Ah, that explains the loose batteries laying on the counter."

The two of them laughed and James drew in a steadying breath. This had definitely been a poor idea...

* * *

 

Before long several hours had passed them by. At some point the two of them had finally decided to stop ignoring James and baited him into joining the lively conversation. They talked about recent events, Miranda described about her job as an art appraiser and a little more about herself, and John graciously returned the favor. He talked about how he had come to work at Naussa's and how he spent a brief time at college studying music. He even managed to coax James into sharing how they had initially met. A story, if it could even be referred to as such, she regarded with a warm smile.  

At some point John's phone could be heard buzzing from within his pocket and he excused himself from the table. James supposed he could act like a gentleman at times after all.

"Oh, fucking hell."

Never mind that last thought.

"Sorry," John muttered as he returned. "Max just texted me. Apparently someone bailed on Eleanor and she needs me down at the pub to fill in. Fuck," he swore again. Then, "--Sorry. 'Better call a cab.."

"No need, I'll take you."

Both Miranda and John turned to stare in surprise at the offer. James swallowed firmly in an effort to fight back against his unease. After a moment a smile pulled at the corner of John's mouth. Miranda, however, seemed to be balancing between shock and concern.

In an effort to ease her mind James offered a small shrug. "It's time," he pointed out simply, his voice quiet. John's smile warmed and that alone was enough to assuage the tension and panic biting at the edge of his mind.

"Alright," John agreed after a moment. He reached over the counter and tossed him his car keys. "Let's go."


	15. Just Do It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James' recovery is hereby sponsored by Nike.  
> /fingerguns

James' fingers fidgeted restlessly at his side as he leaned back against the wall of the entryway. John had run upstairs to change back into his own clothing, mumbling something on the way about how if Max saw him in baggy clothing again she would sit him down and force-feed him junk food. In all honesty, James didn't mind the short reprieve to collect his thoughts. Perhaps in this moment it would be easier to do so without the concerned expression that usually smug face was capable of. However, it didn't take long for him to take notice of the other pair of eyes currently scrutinizing him.

"What?" he asked. His attempt at keeping his tone level was met with resounding failure.

Miranda seemed to consider her words before speaking. "Are you sure that this is a good idea?" she finally wondered. "Please, don't get me wrong, this is a big step but--" She then gave a slight shake of her head as she sighed. " _This is a big step_."

James did his best to ignore the unease already clawing at the edge of his mind. "I know," he admitted. His thumb raked back and forth over the toothed edge of his keys, pressing down hard intermittently just to feel the  sting of cold metal. It kept him planted here in the present. And what's more, the sharp pain was enough to distract him from the less appealing sensations currently pulling at him from several different directions. The rapid heartbeats, the shallow breaths, the racing thoughts, all of which were only further amplified by that nervous buzz of energy beneath his skin. None of this was new. In fact, he had actually grown quite accustomed to the way his panic manifested itself. Yet this did in no way lessen the severity of it. It didn't assuage the panic and fear that gripped him each and every time. And Despite his attempt to keep his fidgeting as subtle as possible, Miranda seemed to see right through him with the same ease she always had.

Before she could say anything more, John's voice cut through the air. "Ready?" he asked.

James meant to answer him, truly he did. Yet when his lips parted they did so wordlessly. After a moment he managed to clear his throat before offering a faint nod. "Of course.." Despite his best efforts the words were rough, his voice obviously strained.

John must have noticed the way his eyes then flitted briefly towards Miranda, for the next question was aimed her. "You'll come too, right?"

Tension quickly locked his jaw in place. As much as James wished for her to accompany them, he couldn't find it in himself to ask. She had already done so much for him in terms of his recovery. She still did. The care she extended was far more than a friend or ex-lover ever should, and so he didn't wish to bother her with this. They had already taken up hours of her time this evening and he knew that she would be working the following day. Apparently John had sensed his inability to reach out for her in this moment, and so he took it upon himself to do so for him.

Miranda met his gaze just long enough to silently confirm that this was something he wanted, that her presence wouldn't instead prove to be too overwhelming. Those hazelnut eyes were questioning, and the slight dip of his chin was enough to provide the answer she  sought. With a warm smile she then nodded her head at John.

"Of course," she voiced. "James has gone on and on about your music... I would love to hear you play."

John nodded with a that confident grin. So it was all decided.

The next few moments dragged by in a blur as Miranda and John exchanged a several more words with one another. He didn't hear any of them, their voices instead drowned out by the persistent pounding of blood in his ears. At least until he felt John's fingers intertwine with his own, his hold gently pressing the keys into his palm. Immediately he was brought back to the present. Miranda was fetching her coat and here John was, leaning close to whisper into his ear.

"So you talk about me a lot, huh?" he teased.

Once again James couldn't find it in himself to answer. His mouth felt as though it had been soldered shut. His stomach flipped, his throat locking tight as if caught by the thick rope of a noose. Though he had tried to ignore the signs for the past several minutes, he could no longer deny that he was having another panic attack. He couldn't grasp a single coherent thought, let alone find his voice. All he could do was give that hand a gentle squeeze in response, just to let him know that he had heard him.

"James?" This time it was not John that called out to him, but Miranda.

"Go on ahead," John suggested, his hand feeling warm and grounding against his arm. "We'll meet you out there in a minute." James lifted his head just in time to see Miranda cast him a concerned expression before disappearing out the back door.

"James," John now murmured. He forced himself to meet that gaze, to look into those two oceans that seemed to assuage his mind each and every time. Even then, a breath all but shook from his lungs as John's hands moved up to cradle his face. "Breathe," he reminded him.

James' eyes squeezed shut, fingers clutching the other man's wrists almost desperately, as he forced himself to breathe in and out, nice and slow. It took a few tries, but eventually he managed it.

"There you go," John soothed. "Breathe. What's the worst that could happen?"

The question itself earned a harsh scowl in return. "A car accident that could kill both you and Miranda," he glared.

"Realistically..." James' brow furrowed in slight confusion; however, John waited for him to take another steady breath before continuing. "The pub is only a few minutes from here," he reasoned. "It's a single lane in either direction the entire way, and you're going what, thirty five or so miles per hour? _Realistically_ , hat could happen?"

James frowned, his tongue reaching out to wet his lip as he thought. Realistically... After a few long moments he finally found his answer. "Uhm.. I have another panic attack and have to stop the car in the middle of the road..."  
  
A small smile teased at the edge of John's mouth as he nodded. "And if that happens, we switch seats and I drive the rest of the way, while you sit back and relax."  
  
James forced down the lump in his throat. "And the cars stopped behind me?"  
  
That grin only widened. "You can bet I'll flip off the first piece of shit to lay on their horn."

* * *

James had never given much thought to what it would be like to sit behind the wheel once more. There was anxiety, certainly, but also a touch of something else. Something he couldn't quite identify. Strength, empowerment? No matter what it was, he refused to try and give a name aloud. He already felt enough shame for having been reduced to such a  state in the first place. So instead he focused on the cool leather of the steering wheel beneath his palms, the press of the seat belt across his chest, and the hum of the engine that reverberated through him with the turn of the key.

John had slid into he seat next to him while Miranda had opted for the back. Fortunately, the two of them picked up their conversation from where they had left off. Not only did the sound of their voices provide a soothing distraction, but it kept him, kept this, from being the focus of attention. Still, John's hand found his own when it became apparent that he was succumbing to panic once more. Those eyes met his own and he offered a soft, reassuring squeeze.

James released a final, even breath before releasing the break and putting the car in drive. Fortunately for him it had been a rather dry winter and so heavy snow, icy roads, and poor visibility were not one of his concerns. Instead he was able to concentrate on the road in front of him, soothed by the radio John flipped on, as well as their continuing chatter.

To his great surprise, after he managed to make it through the first light unscathed, he actually began to... Relax. Rather than becoming lost the increasingly numb tingling in his fingertips, he slowly began to regain control. His breath returned to him, coming and going with ease instead of requiring his constant attention to keep from hyperventilating. Before long he was actually leaning back in his seat and remembering the comfort of the worn fabric cushions. His grip on the wheel loosened as the tension lessened more and more. Until he could hear the lyrics of the song that played on the radio, feel the touch of John's steady hand on his knee. And soon enough, they were there.

The moment James turned the key and the car fell silent and dark, he released a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. John gave his leg a reassuring pat. "See?" he murmured beneath his breath, his gaze kind. James could only smile in response. 

The evening air outside was frigid, likely below freezing, but in this moment it felt increasingly refreshing. Eyes closed as he drew in another deep breath. He did it... He drove. He had been miserable with panic, but still.. he did it. He couldn't help but revel in the relief that washed through him at the fact. To another, such an accomplishment would likely seem trivial, perhaps even silly, but not to him. Not now. Now he felt... Strong. Just like when he came to the bar to hear John play, and later when he had met his friends for New Years.

Even so, when John nonchalantly passed him a cigarette, he accepted it gratefully. "I'll meet you two inside," Miranda said. She gave James a warm smile and John a wink before heading across the lot, effectively leaving the two of them alone.

John had already flipped out his lighter for the cigarette clasped between his teeth. Then he lit James' own, protecting the small flame against the wind with his hand. They then leaned back against the brick and smoked in silence. Despite the cold whether the streets were alive, music blaring from the bar and other establishments as cars and pedestrians passed them by. James hadn't realized how much he missed the taste of the smoke that filled his lungs. He hasn't smoked habitually in a while. Vaguely he wondered if he should take it up again. At the very least  it would be better than drinking.

After what seemed like several minutes of that comfortable silence, James finally sought to beak it. "You amaze me, you know." His cigarette had all but burned down to the butt, and with a tap of his thumb he sent a line if ash scattering towards the pavement.

John was already halfway through his second cigarette. At his words he glanced over at him. "What do you mean?" he asked, a single brow raised.

James was quiet for a moment, considering. "I've known Miranda for several years. Even Jack and I were friends back in high school," he began to explain. "Ever since the accident, people have been pushing at me from all directions in an effort to get me to move forward. And I couldn't." He then breathed a chuckle with a shake of his head. "Then there's you. A man I have only just met, and yet all you have to do is smile in my direction for me to be stumbling over my feet in an effort to keep pace with you."

John smirked widely before taking a long drag of his cigarette. With a tilt of his head he blew a stream of smoke towards the sky. "Hey, don't look at me," he reasoned. "Tonight was your idea."

James merely snorted at the small technicality. "And all the other times?"

John shrugged. "Why do you think that is?" he returned instead. His thumb absentmindedly flicked over the edge of the lighter just enough to cause sparks.

"I don't know," James admitted before taking a final puff. "Perhaps it's because you remind me of Thomas." If he hadn't chosen that exact moment to drop the cigarette and extinguish it beneath his shoe, he would have noticed the way the John's expression immediately faltered. He would have seen the hurt that flashed within those eyes, the way his throat tightened. But he didn't see any of these things. Instead, the moment he looked back up John's face had resumed its usual practiced mask.

"Come on," John encouraged with a tired smile. "I need to get inside before Eleanor thinks I'm not coming and blows a fuse.."

* * *

 

James found Miranda over by the bar with a glass of water in hand. The moment they stepped inside John had made a beeline for the back. He had seemed oddly tense but he did his best to brush it off. Despite the shortness of the drive he was exhausted by the toll it had taken. It was likely he was just imagining things.

Miranda offered a warm smile the moment he joined her. She poked at the ice that floated in the glass with her straw as she seemed to think over her next words. "James..."

The man shook his head, his hand reaching up to rake his fingernails over the back of his neck. "Please," he almost begged her, avoiding her eyes. "You don't have to say anything."

"I'm so proud of you," Miranda continued nonetheless. A barely audible groan left his lips as she kissed his cheek.

"Did I see Silver come in with you?" Though they had only spoken briefly and only a few times, Eleanor's voice was unmistakable. When James nodded she frowned. "Wow," she mused. "Guess persistence really does pay off. Anyway, you want your usual?"

"No, thank you."

Eleanor offered a polite nod before leaving to tend to her other patrons. Almost Immediately he could feel Miranda staring at him. "I'm sorry that I told you I'd stopped drinking," he muttered without meeting her gaze.

"You don't have to apologize."

When he finally lifted his gaze there was nothing but understanding in those dark brown eyes. Just as there always had been. Fingers gripped his shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. Soon the boisterous chatter that filled the bar was broken apart by the gentle strings of a guitar. John had taken up his usual seat at the stool in the corner. The guitar that was perched in his lap was not the usual one he played on. Then again, that only made sense. John hadn't been home in days; this was likely just a spare Eleanor kept in the back. This thought was only confirmed when he spent the next few moments nonsensically fiddling with the strings as he tuned it.

Tonight it seemed that it would just be John playing. Max was nowhere in sight, nor were the others of the Ranger that he often played with. Not that he minded in the least. As there appeared to be no song lyrics, the lilt of John's playing rose slowly yet surely in the background. Though the drunken chatter barely lessened, the moment he began to play they became nonexistent. He focused on the rise and fall of the cords, the way the music was somehow so deep and full of longing. The smile that rose on John's lips as he played was just as mesmerizing at the way his fingers so easily traveled over the cords. Practiced, effortless, as if burned into his very memory.  
  
"You must really care for him."  
  
Eyes blinked as Miranda's voice coaxed him back from where he had become lost in his thoughts. "I do," he answered simply. There was no point in trying to deny it, especially to her. She would easily see right past the lie in the only way that she could.

"Thomas would approve."  
  
James swallowed, his breath becoming trapped in his lungs as he dipped his head. There it was again: Guilt. Though that had surely not been Miranda's intention, it didn't lessen that weight steadily growing upon his chest. "You think?"  
  
"I know that he would."

Finally James looked over to her. Those deep eyes held nothing but love. For Thomas, certainly, but for him as well. She didn't shy away when he moved to place a kiss against her cheek.

The hours passed by with an ease he hadn't known in quite some time, especially considering the noise and bustling activity of such a public place. Weeks ago he had suffered a crippling panic attack from simply visiting Nassau's when it wasn't his usual Thursday evening. Yet here he sat, not at his usual spot at the bar, but at a completely different table, listening to John play his music with Miranda by his side and only a glass of water in front of him. The anxiety he had felt earlier this evening had all but dissipated. Now the only thing that filled his mind were the strings of that guitar, John's smile that persisted with each glance, and Miranda's soothing voice as they spent much-needed time catching up.

When John finished playing, the usual throng of noise became intermixed with clapping and drunken cheers. John's smile was just as blinding as it always was when he had finished playing. Still, he seemed almost sheepish as he scratched the back of his head, his curls bouncing over his shoulder, as he handed the guitar to one of the bar backs. It wasn't until then that James took notice of the two familiar moving towards him. He recognized Billy immediately. How could he not when he practically towered a foot above everyone else's head. And As always, Ben trsiled close behind. The smaller man noticed them and offered a warm smile before waving them over.

While he and Miranda approached the group, John and Billy had become caught up in their own conversation. In fact.. It almost seemed like they were arguing. Yet the moment they drew closer John's gaze lifted. The scowl that had hardened his face just seconds earlier disappeared without a trace, giving way to that smile once more. Quickly, James glanced at Billy. The man still looked rather irritated, but whatever they were talking about so vehemently had been put aside for now. When he saw him he offered the usual polite nod of his head.

"Everythinb okay?" James couldn't help but ask.

"Of course," John assured him easily. Then, changing the subject, "Miranda, these are my friends, Billy and Ben."

"A pleasure," Miranda smiled.

James stepped forward to place a light kiss against John's forehead. "You were great," he murmured, his voice low as these words were just for him. "Couldn't take my eyes of you."

John smirked, those steadying hands finding his own. "I noticed," he purred wistfully.

James hummed before kissing those dark curls once more. "Are you ready to go?" When he didn't respond, he looked down at him with a brow quirked.

John swallowed. "Uhm.." he struggled as he scratched at the back of his head. "I was actually thinking about going home tonight. Billy was going to drop me off on the way back to their place."

Oh.

"Of course," James agreed with a nod. Of course he would have to return home at some point. "Do you have your phone, your wallet?"

John's smirk returned at those mothering questions. "Of course," he mirrored. With a gentle tug against the corner of his coat, John then coaxed him a few steps away from the group. They were now chatting amongst themselves and so they wouldn't be missed, if their absence was noticed at all. It wasn't exactly privacy, but it was closer. Only then did John kiss his lips. He did so slowly, tentatively, almost as if he was unsure of himself.

James returned it without hesitation, his hands moving up to cradle those cheeks as their mouths slotted together. Yet as they were in a public place, they kept it chaste.

"Can you text me when you get home?" John eventually asked, his eyes questioning. "Just so I know you got back okay."

James nodded as he removed his scarf to instead wrap it safely around John's shoulders. "Of course," he promised.

* * *

Fortunately Miranda was kind enough to offer to drive them both back to the townhouse. He had reasoned that he had had enough of an adventure for one day. He was happy enough to sit back and relax during the short ride, his thumb slowly turning the ring on his finger as he replayed the day's events in his mind. When they arrived back at the flat, they exchanged a few more words, another kiss on the cheek, and then he wax alone.

Just as he had promised, James sent a quick text to John before abandoning the phone on the counter. Fingers raked through his hair as he released an exhausted sigh. What a day. What a _week_. A part of himself was still trying to process it all even though he knew nothing would come from dwelling on it. If anything, it would only cause his anxiety to spark anew.

So instead he kicked off his shoes and went upstairs to wash his face, the cold water clearing his mind. Even now, his home still felt  like John was here. The faint smell of cigarette smoke, the stack of books he had tasked himself with reading through, and the clothes he had borrowed lying in a small crumpled pile near the foot of the bed.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he went about cleaning up the mess, if it could even be considered as such. Just as he lifted the pair of jeans, tucking the t-shirt he had also worn beneath his arm, he heard something fall to the floor. The moment he picked it up he paused in place. It was a small plastic baggie, noticeably crumpled and worn, and filled with an assortment of pills.


	16. Take Hold

John hadn't felt this unsure of himself in quite a while. Well, okay-- _Save for the past week_ when James had started dodging his texts and avoiding his calls. Other than that.. He had always been certain of his identity, of who he was. Even when that person was an absolute piece of shit, he had always known where he stood in life. Orphan, misfit, invalid, freak. It didn't matter what label he had slapped onto himself. The point was that he _owned_  it, no matter what it was. If he was a liar, he was a damn good liar. When he was a cripple, he used it to play upon the sympathy of others to get his way. He had always possessed a knack for self preservation. He supposed it went hand in hand with being bounced from one foster home to the next until he had eventualy been aged out of the system. And even then he spent a year living on the streets.

John had always been out for himself, doing what was necessary to get by. He was a smooth-talker, a manipulator. He knew this and he embraced it openly. He spent time and effort perfecting it as one would with any valuable skill. Even his friends knew of his glaring faults and yet they accepted him anyway. They cared for him despite the fact that his imperfections were more or less his entire personality. Eventually they became one of the few things that he would sacrifice anything for, even himself.

James, too, had quickly become one of these people. These exceptions to the golden rule of "me, myself, and I". Only with him it wasn't so simple. James cared for him, that much was obvious. But could such a thing truly be genuine when what they loved was but one side of who you were? Or was that little more than just another lie?

What James saw time and time again was the compassion and kindness he was capable of; but that wasn't who he was. It was but a small, almost insignificant portion of himself. A piss-poor projection of who he wanted to be, of who he _wished_ that he was. Someone that could earn the loyalty his friends gave him without question or restraint. Someone that could deserve the way those deep green eyes gazed upon him, as if he were actually worth something.

Yet how could he be? Especially now that he had been compared to Thomas Hamilton, the man that James had clearly loved without fault and with a passion he had never known. Though it was true he had never talked about him much, he could only gather the strength of his character. After all, he had gained the adoration of both James and Miranda. Certainly he couldn't fill a fraction of those shoes. If only James knew just who he was, who he had always been. God, how he would be disappointed.

How would he come to feel about him if he knew what Billy did of his past, if he heard what Max and Muldoon had seen him through? What would he think about the fact that he couldn't afford even his back-rent? That he had not dropped out of collage because of his injury, but rather that he had flunked out. That after the accident he couldn't stay sober long enough to get out of bed most days, let alone keep up with the work load and demands of school. That he had been arrested for starting a bar fight after drinking too much. That he'd been to rehab. That he was so uncomfortable with experiencing actual genuine emotions, that the more time he spent with James, the more pressure he felt to get high. Until the point came that he was popping pills in his company just to keep the growing anxiety and feelings of worthlessness at bay.

What a piece of shit he was... Putting on that practiced smile and playing "savior" to James when he couldn't even hold his own broken pieces together.

John leaned against the bar with his chin resting on his propped up hand. He poked almost lazily at the plate of food that had been set before him. As he had done Eleanor a favor by coming down to play, she was kind enough to give him some of the food they were planning to toss out at the end of the night anyway. The ice cold beer set beside it was also a nice touch, one that was certainly appreciated.

Both Billy and Ben had taken off roughly an hour ago, and so he simply sat and listened to the drunken chatter of those that had decided to stay late into the night. Despite what he had told James he had no intention of hitching a ride back home. Especially with Billy. He was one of his best friends, truly, but at times he could really piss him off. Once again he had decided to bring up the subject of his developing "habit". Apparently the fact that he had been "missing" the past few days immediately meant that he was off getting high. While the accusation was partially true, it was still insulting. So instead he would take a cab just as he had always done. It was just another way of easing his mind that he could still take care of himself. That he didn't _need_ anyone else. That he didn't need to be looked after.

At the very least, James was true to his word and texted him when he had gotten home safely. The words that blipped across the screen had made him smile more than he cared to admit.

10:49pm _just got back_

10:51pm _thank you... for tonight_

There was no hesitation before John sent back his own message wishing him to have a good night. Nor was there any concern about how it had taken over two hours or so for it to be returned. His mind was already mulling over too much as it was. What James had said about Thomas, that he reminded him of him... It had completely thrown him off. These past few days had been so laid back. Easygoing. If he were being completely honest with himself, which was something he was trying not to form a habit of, it had been amazing. It almost felt as though they had started moving forward once again. Fuck, for a few days there they were practically living together. Falling asleep not inches from each other only to wake up the same way..

Now, he wasn't certain about anything... What if the only reason James held any interest towards him in the first place was because he was reminiscent of Thomas? What if he was nothing more than a shoddy replacement for the love he had lost? What if he soon realized that he could do so much better? What if..? _What if...?_

By the time John actually got around to calling a cab he had knocked back several more drinks. He wasn't stumbling drunk like he had been many times before, but it was more than obvious that his head would be hurting royally the next morning. Even so, he couldn't find it in himself to care all that much. After all, he was allowed to wallow in self pity every once in a while. The ride was a quiet one, and honestly he didn't remember most of it. He did remember the end, though. He had pulled out his wallet to pay the fare only to realize that he only had two pounds on him. Of course that would be the case. He offered to go to an ATM but the driver just waved him off with a slew of swears, telling him to give what he could and "get the fuck out". With a huff he did just that. He wasn't in the mood for this shit. However, the cabbie muttering "asshole" in his direction as he opened the door did seem oddly deserving.

The moment John reached his flat he released a sigh and popped a cigarette into his mouth. A notice that had been left on the door was promptly crumpled up and throw into the trashcan with the others. After smoking nearly half a pack and heating up some food that was a little more nutritious  than stale fries, he curled up onto the couch. He didn't bother removing the prosthesis. Though he certainly knew he would pay for it tomorrow, he was far too exhausted.

So instead he wrapped himself up in an blanket, one that Max had knit him for Christmas a few years ago, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Though his eyes were growing heavy he fought against it so that he could re-read his texts from James. The scarf the man had once again left him with was still loosely wrapped around his shoulders. Absentmindedly he drew it up to press it against his nose, his fingers toying with the dark material as he breathed in the scent of him. That night he fell asleep dreaming of fiery red hair and green eyes, and wondering what it would be like to have those arms around him.

* * *

The minute John awoke he did so with a groan. Just as he had expected, his head had been reduced to little more than a throbbing mess. Each beat of his heart reverberated through his skull like a direct punch to the face. Unfortunately, he was also right about his leg. Though the amputation had been healed for a few years now, prosthetics were still not made to be slept in, especially on a couch. The muscles of his leg felt strained and there was a noticeable knot in the back of his neck. Of course, none of this could hold a candle to his hangover.

He had certainly overdone it last night, and now he wasn't even sure why. What James had said about Thomas... Surely that hadn't been meant with any ill intention. He knew that. But even so, those words had reopened a door within himself. One that he sought to keep firmly closed at all times. One behind which he concealed his feelings of inadequacy, or being less than, with the aid of a clever smirk. He had overreacted. Surely he had overreacted.

John slid off the couch with care, fingers gripping uselessly at his head as he resisted the urge to wrap the scarf around his face to better protect him from the offensive sunlight. When his head stopped throbbing long enough for his eyes to crack open and glance at the clock, he saw that it was well past noon.

_Fuck._

The next miserable hour was spent with a plate of toast and lots and lots of water. Once the pain began to recede he went about his day, though barely. He took another shower to wash off the smell of beer, cigarettes, and paranoia before changing and settling back down on the couch. His cell phone has fallen to the floor, and when he picked it up he saw he had missed a call from James.

_Double fuck._

John fought to ignore the persisting headache as he swiped across the screen to call him back. As usual, James seemed to wait until it was just about to go to voicemail before picking up.

"John?" the voice asked. Even from that single word he could sense that the man was feeling anxious. Not just from the tension in his tone, but because he had felt the urge to ask when he had caller ID. Then again, that wasn't all that unusual either.

"Yeah, what's up?" John asked, his eyes squeezing shut briefly. Even his own voice seemed to rattle his head.

The question was followed by a noticeable pause. "I was... Wondering if we could meet today." Another pause. "For coffee."

John combed his fingers through his damp hair as a frown tugged at his lips. Now he was acting a bit strangely, even for him. "Of course," he answered. "Everything alright?" When there was no immediate response his brow furrowed. "James?"

"Sorry. Yes. Uhm, is our usual place okay? Say around four o' clock?"

John wasn't overly convinced. Still he answered easily. "Sure, I'll see you then." Even after the call ended, John just simply stated at the phone in his hands. That was odd. James seemed far more flustered than usual. In any case... He released a heavy sigh. If he was going to have to suffer through leaving the house with a hangover, at the very least he could do so with something to take the edge off. It was always odd taking narcotics for what they were actually prescribed for.

John wandered back into his room to find the jeans he had worn yesterday. He reached into his left pocket for the small baggie he always kept there. When he didn't find it a sharp frown pulled at his lips. That was weird... Quickly he began to search through the other pockets, his unease mounting with each one that turned up empty. By the time he had turned them all inside out he was close to panic. _Where were they?_ He had it just yesterday. He clearly remembered stepping out onto the back porch when Miranda first showed up, seeking a cigarette and half an oxycotin, then slipping them back into his pocket before he went back inside. Only... it wasn't his pocket. It wasn't until then that it clicked. He had borrowed James' clothing the past few days, only changing right before they headed back to the bar.

"Fuck!" John practically shouted. James had found it. That's why he wanted to meet up. That's why he sounded so odd. " _Fuck_!" His foot collided with the wall as he buried his face in his hands. Well... that was certainly one way to end a relationship. If James had thought him similar to his past lover before, he certainly didn't anymore. Another string of curses left his lips, his fingers threading through his hair as he gave way to pacing.

What was he going to do?

* * *

 

There were only two hours separating James' phone call and when they were set to meet up. Even so, it was certainly the longest two hours of John's life. He had only managed to remain within the confines of his apartment for half an hour before gnawing panic forced him to head out early. Exceptionally early. He wasn't used to this. Panic attacks were a thing he had only experienced once or twice in the past year. Whenever he began to notice his anxiety getting out of hand he would solve it with partying, booze, and an evening with his guitar. Muldoon was always good company for that. As of late, despite what he had told Billy, he had resorted back to getting high. It had seemed like such a simple solution. Yet as always, it was the short and simple ways of solving a problem that often ended up biting you in the ass. And it was about to do just that.

John leaned against the brick wall of the cafe where they usually met up. His hand practically shook as he lit another cigarette. He had already smoked the last of his pack and had walked to the corner store to buy another. Despite the nauseous churning in his stomach and the persistent throb in his head, he could focus on none of it. Instead all he could think about was what was to come. What would James say to him about this? How would he _look at him now?_ There was no doubt that the pills weren't prescribed. He had told James before that his amputation had healed long ago, that it no longer pained him. Another afternoon when James was asking him about how he had dealt with panic attacks, it came up that he hadn't had them regularly since he started working at Nassau's. While he wasn't exactly using them recreationally like he had been in the past, buying drugs illegally to self medicate wasn't exactly a "step up".

He wasn't even sure what type of relationship he had with James right now. They spent a lot of time together, they had gone on a few "dates", but they weren't _together_. There had never been a talk about where they were. Even so, no matter what it was they had, John was terrified of losing it. He had always been fond of one-night stands. Even before the accident and long-term commitments became more difficult to come by, he had always preferred to keep to himself, with the exception of an occasional quick fuck. James was different... That had become apparent that night in the ally when he had helped him come down from a panic attack. He didn't just find him attractive. He didn't just find him intriguing. He wanted to _know_ him. And the fact that that meant going slow was the farthest thing from his mind. Even the lightest of touches sent electricity racing through him. Every kiss felt like their first, and every embrace felt like their last. He didn't want to lose that. He _couldn't_ lose that. How could he explain to James that he was the first person that made him want to stay sober, when at the same time the weight of his very presence made him pop pills?

By the time James finally arrived, John was contemplating bailing down the ally before he caught sight of him. Yet the moment those green eyes met his own his feet became planted firmly in place. James' hands were stuffed in his pockets and his gaze only lingered for a moment before flitting away. This only made John's throat tighten. From shame, certainly, but also guilt and unease. And fear, if he were being completely honest with himself. He forced himself to breath out, reaching up to pull the cigarette from his mouth and put it out on the pavement. Fingers clutched desperately at the scarf James had lent him, raising it to his nose in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Soon enough they were standing a mere foot apart, and both seemed equally at a loss for words. Finally James cleared his throat. His jaw clenched, locking as he swallowed, his brow furrowing in that way it always did when he was nervous. When he felt backed against the wall. All at once another wave of guilt washed over him. Right now he was not the solution to James' anxiety, but the cause of it. God, what a piece of shit he was.

"Based on your expression..." James gathered after a moment, those eyes looking up at him once more, "You probably guessed why.."

"Yeah," John mumbled simply. He was already pulling out another cigarette. He most likely smelled like a fucking ash tray at this point. "You, uhm, found..." James had already withdrawn the small crumpled bag from his coat pocket and held it out for him. With a heavy sigh, John took it and stuffed it back into his jeans.

"I thought your leg wasn't hurting you?"

"It's not.."

James' head dipped slightly as he stepped forward into his space. His hands had returned to his pockets where they were more than likely fidgeting. "Those are narcotics, John..." His voice was low enough to keep this conversation private, but even so the concern that laced his tone was unmistakable.

"I know," John admitted. He shifted on his feet, his fingers tightening in the knit fabric of the scarf. It was but a desperate attempt to hold James close without actually reaching out and touching him in this moment. "I can explain," he struggled. "I... _want_ to explain. It's just..." He shook his head before releasing an unsteady breath. "This... This just isn't a conversation I'm ready to have yet." There it was. That pitiful excuse, that small shred of honesty. Now all he could do is wait for James to say--

"Okay."

John's gaze immediately shifted upwards. His lips parted wordlessly, confusion twisting his features, before he finally found his voice. "Wait-- _What?"_

" _Okay_ ," James repeated, this time his voice softer. His shoulder lifted then in a slight shrug as John apparently balked at him. His expression still conveyed his concern, but now there was something else gentling those features: Genuine understanding. "It's okay, John," he continued, his hand tentatively reaching out to move up his arm. "I don't need to know everything... You're allowed to have your own secrets, your own things that you wish to keep private." A frown returned to his lips as he seemed to struggle with his next words. "It's not like I don't have my own... struggles. Hell, until a few days ago I had more liquor in my home than food."

John's eyes moved over James' face, searching. Part of him couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had been expecting disappointment and accusations, not empathy. Not _this_. "You don't.." He shook his head, teasing the unlit cigarette between his teeth. It was always strange when he found himself at a loss for words.

"I'm not looking for an explanation," James assured him. The hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze as he spoke. "I'm not looking for an excuse, and I'm certainly not looking to pass judgement. I just... I just need to know that you're being _careful_."

When John swallowed next it felt as though a weight had lifted from his chest. With a shuddering breath he stepped forward to rest his forehead against the man's shoulder. James didn't seem to hesitate before those arms wrapped around his slightly smaller form and pulled him close. He breathed in the comforting scent of him as he nuzzled close, fingers clasping the folds of his coat as John finally, _finally_ , found the courage to reach out and take hold of that tether.

"I am..." John assured him softly. Those arms tightened around him in a silent answer as James' nose pressed further against his curls. He gave in to it with ease, the sense of safety and acceptance  that embrace provided nearly overwhelming.

Perhap, just perhaps, they could each save the other from drowning, after all.


	17. It's Okay

James' breath grew still in his chest as he stared down at what he had found. Slowly he turned the small, worn plastic bag over in his hands. Unfortunately, there was no mistaking these for what they were: Narcotics; and strong ones at that. The Vicodin was one that he recognized almost immediately. After the accident his doctor had temporarily prescribed them while he was in the hospital recovering from his own injuries. There were also several bars of Xanax and what he thought to be oxycodone, as well as a few others whose names he didn't know. Even so, they seemed reminiscent of what he had seen scattered across Charles' flat when he was struggling with his own opioid addiction.

James closed his eyes and released a slow breath in an effort to steady his nerves. Even so, the consideration that John was using these to get high clawed at the edge of his mind. There was no way such a cocktail of medications was prescribed, even if he were still experiencing anxiety or pain from the amputation. These types of drugs were highly addictive. He remembered vividly how they had nearly torn Charles apart, tearing at his life one thread at a time until there was hardly anything left. He remembered the violent mood swings, the tremors from the withdrawal, and the depression that followed as he once more had to learn to stand on his own two feet. The possibility of seeing John in such a state nearly caused his heart to lurch into his throat. 

How could he not have known about this? More than that, how could he have been so naive as to believe that despite the trauma John had suffered, despite how it still clearly bore down on him with an invisible weight, that he was without his own struggles? He had known from their very first meeting that that blinding smile was a falsehood, a practiced part of his own mask, and yet he had allowed himself to be fooled by it time and time again. Not because he couldn't have seen past it if he truly tried, but because he had been so caught up in his own problems. It made him sick to the stomach. More than that, it quickly began to give way to a panic attack.

Fingers clutched at his hair as he tossed the baggie onto the end of the bed. He couldn't bare to look at it right now. Not with the way his heart was currently pounding within his chest, the beat more erratic than the mess of thoughts scurrying about his mind. Eyes squeezed shut as he gulped almost desperately at the air, not unlike a man that was drowning. The severity and suddenness of the attack causing tears to prick at the corners of his eyes. He couldn't breathe... He couldn't... He couldn't do this! He couldn't! He needed to call John. He needed to hear the soothing tone of his voice telling him that it was alright.. That he would be fine. But that wasn't a possibility right now, was it? What if John had already realized that his pills were missing? What if he felt the need to talk about it then and there? No, no... He couldn't call him. He couldn't think about the drugs, about the way John was currently struggling himself. Not now, not when he couldn't even keep his own head above the water. Right now he would have to deal with this attack on his own. If he were ever going to able to help John, to be there for him and provide that tether just as he had done for him, he would need to be able to stand on his own. He would need to be strong. Not just for him, but for both of them.

James swallowed thickly as he lowered himself to the floor. He did his best to ignore the irony of it as he leaned against the side of the bed, tilting his head back until the mattress pressed against the base on his neck. His own medication was downstairs in his coat pocket. There was no way he would be able to get to it now. He couldn't move, save for the trembling that shook through him. The sensation in his hands and feet had already vanished, leaving little more than a numb tingling that only heightened his fear that he was going to faint. Not that it much mattered. Even if he could get to his ativan, with the panic attack already in full swing as it was, it likely wouldn't make much of a difference. He was already too far gone. So instead James closed his eyes and focused hard on taking a single slow and steady breath. In through the nose... hold... then slowly out the mouth. Just as John had coached him him several times before. He could do this... As he repeated the exercise he imagined that John was here with him now. He imagined the warmth of those hands as they cradled his face, the way that smile could be heard in the lilt of his voice as he encouraged him to breathe.

 _Slowly now, James... In through your nose.. then hold for a few seconds... Yeah, like that. Now slowly exhale._ A chuckle. _See? You can did this._

He could do this.

James kept his eyes shut, his mind focusing on the image of John as he slowly managed to take one steadying breath after another. He wasn't certain just how much time had passed, he never was. It could have been as short as ten or so minutes or as long as an hour. But eventually the attack subsided, somehow vanishing just as suddenly as it had appeared. Relief washed over him like a cresting wave, knocking him down with the weight of his exhaustion though the sense of comfort remained the same. He was alright. Just as John always said he would be.

James allowed himself to remain down on the floor for a few more minutes. Not only to ensure that the panic attack was truly over, but to give him a chance to recuperate a little. Just as always his limbs had been left feeling unbearably heavy, his mind just as worn from the toll the experience had taken on him. He was exhausted. Still, he couldn't help the faint sense of pride. Instead of fighting against the panic only to make it worse in the long run, he had finally managed to give into it and face it head-on. Just as his therapist Mr. Scott had wanted him to since the start, and just as John had tried to coach him through time and time again. Only this time he had done it on his own.

He could do this.

James took a final calming breath, in and out, before carefully climbing to his feet. The bag of pills went straight into his pants pocket so that he could put it downstairs on the kitchen counter beside his keys. There it would be right in plain sight, where it couldn't get misplaced, and where he couldn't possibly pretend to ignore it. He needed to talk to John about this... However, it was far too late to deal with it right now. Even if John had already left the bar and was somehow still awake, he wouldn't spoil his night. What's more, he needed his rest. They both did. And so the matter could at the very least wait until morning.

* * *

James sat at the table with his mouth pressed firmly against the clasped fingers of his propped-up hands. His elbows rested heavily against the wooden surface while his gaze was trained downwards, right at the cellphone that rested at the center of the table with the bag of pills beside it. He stared at it almost expectantly and with deep concentration, as if doing so could somehow cause the phone to make the call itself. His foot tapped restlessly as he wrestled with his thoughts. He didn't even have an idea of what he was going to say. How could you even bring up a conversation as sensitive as this one? What's more, this was something that should be discussed in person. But where? Here? John's place? No... No, he hadn't even been there yet. What about someplace public?

Then again, did he even have the right to talk to John about this? After all, his recycling was almost overflowing with emptied liquor bottles. He wasn't exactly the poster child for healthy coping mechanisms. Surely bringing this up would be a shouting case of hypocrisy. But... He couldn't just pretend that he hadn't found the pills, that he wasn't worried about a budding addiction. After all, this wasn't about James. His own problems didn't negate the issue that popping pills was a dangerous habit to get into, and that it concerned him... John could cry "hypocrite" from the hilltops if he wanted to, but he had to at least acknowledge this.

Without giving himself the chance to chicken out again, James swiped the phone from the table and punched in John's number. Or rather, he hit speed-dial 2. As the phone continued to ring he found himself pacing about the kitchen, unable to stay still. There was far too much nervous energy flitting about within him. With each pause between the rings his breath stole itself within his chest. He was almost relieved when it finally just went to voicemail.

God, what was wrong with him..? James took a sharp breath before shaking his head. No... No, he could do this.

Still, James was weary of leaving a message and ended the call right before the beep so that he could instead slip it back into his pocket. He wasn't quite sure what he was even thinking trying to get a hold of John before nine in the morning. The man had always been one to sleep in late, at least for as long as he had known him. Not only from the man's texting patterns and his belly-aching about early shifts at the bar, but from the nights they had spent sleeping not inches away from one another. Every morning James awoke at his usual hour to see that curly mop of a head buried against his pillow, the man barely moving save for the steady rise and fall of his chest as he refused to wake. The man slept like the dead. And when he finally did stir and wander down the stairs, he looked just as worse for wear, hair mussed and expression slack as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Almost as if it wasn't just before noon. Even now James found himself smirking lightly at the memory. That being said, as John had worked he night at the bar he would likely wake even later than usual, especially if her were nursing a hangover. At the very least he supposed it would give him more time to think about what he would say...

By the time James decided to try and reach John again it was a little ways passed noon. However, the moment he reached over to pick up his phone it started to ring. John's name flashed across the screen from the caller ID and his throat immediately tightened. It was maddening how even now, even the slightest variation to his expectations could send his heart racing as it tries to beat out of his chest. He tried to tell himself that John had simply seen that he had missed a call from him. After all it would be such a simple explanation. Yet, as always, his mind was filled with what if's. What if John was hurt? What if he had discovered that his pills were missing? What if he wanted to talk this out here and now on the phone? What if he'd realized that he wasn't strong enough to be in a codependent relationship? What if he wanted to put a stop to it, whatever this relationship actually was?

Out of nowhere James was suddenly brought back from his thoughts. It was almost as if the constant ringing had only just managed to get through to him and yank him back to the present. He immediately scrambled to grab the phone and answer before it had the chance to go to voicemail. He succeeded, though only barely. He didn't remember the exact conversation they had shared. The only thing he could concentrate on was the way his heart raced and his palms drew clammy as he continuously tripped over his words. Fortunately, he did seem to calm somewhat once he realized that John was in fact simply returning his missed call. There was no distress that could be found within his tone, insinuating that he hadn't yet noticed the pills were missing. Hopefully it would stay that way for at least a while longer.

By the time James hung up they had settled on a time and place to meet up. Though he certainly realized a public venue was perhaps not the best place for such a discussion, if it even got that far, it would have to do. It was inconspicuous and fit into their normal pattern of doing things. Meet up, get a cup of coffee, then go on a "date" or one of their simple walks about the city. It was normal. It was routine. Part of James hoped that would be enough to latch onto to keep himself calm throughout all of this. He still had no idea what exactly it was he would say to John. Even as he was walking down the street towards the small coffee shop, his mind was abuzz with a myriad of different scenarios. What he could say, what he could do. How best to handle the situation in a way that would put John's needs above his own. He remembered Charles, how he had been before the addiction had truly started to manifest himself. He even himself those months after Thomas' passing, when both Miranda and his friends tried vainly to get him to put down the bottle. He remembered what had helped him best in that situation, what had made him better cope. He also remembered clearly what had made him pull away. Still, there were so many different ways to go about this. Yet the moment James turned the corner and caught sight of John, it all seemed so simple. So clear. He supposed it always did when it came to love...

Even so, the John that he knew was not the one that stood before him now. Now, the man seemed to be almost petrified in place. He wondered if this was how he appeared when he was stricken with the fear and panic of an oncoming attack. There was no trace of the man he had come to know so well. No bright and convincing smile, no clever glint in the Caribbean blue of those eyes. Instead they were wide and fearful like that of a deer in the headlights. A frightened child that needed to be held close and protected. After that the words fell from his lips almost effortlessly. That he didn't care about the drugs, that he didn't care about the secrets or whatever lies he may have told to keep it. That, right now, all he needed to know was that John was being _careful._ And then, suddenly, that smaller body was pressing against his own. James' arms wrapped around him instinctively. He didn't hesitate before curling his fingers into those dark tresses, gently cupping the base of John's neck so that he could better hold him close. He was so warm, so solid. And even as that breath shuddered out of John's chest he could feel the way he trembled against him.

"I am." John offered softly after several moments. "Being careful.. I mean. I don't--"

"It's okay," James murmured carefully. He pressed a kiss to the crown of John's head as he pulled him even closer, gentling him. His hands moved down to cradle the edge of his jaw, thumbs stroking against his cheeks in that same manner John had done for him time and time again. Another breath shook itself free and then, slowly, John all but melted against him.

"It's okay, _"_   John eventually repeated. Though his voice was a bare whisper, James could feel that he had calmed somewhat. However, he wasn't certain until those lips touched against his own. They were gentle, careful and searching, and when he returned that kiss his did so just as tentatively, and without any mind to the passers by. They would get through this. They would get _each other_ through this. 


	18. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=ehl6g)   
> 

James wasn't certain just how long they remained out there on the sidewalk. It could have been as little as two or three minutes or as long as half an hour. As cliche of a thought as one could possibly have, time ceased to exist whenever he held John in his arms like this. Normally John stood tall with a kind of confidence and charm that he could only describe as well-practiced. His personality thrust him out and above anyone else he had ever known, and it were those exact traits that made him seem strong and practically invincible. But now, with John bundled in his arms as he pressed up against him, he realized just how small he really was. How fragile.

James paid the passers by no mind during any of this. Not as he held John close and comforted him with light strokes against his hair, not even when their lips eventually melded together. Never before had James been one for public displays of affection. Even with Thomas he had shied away from sharing any form of intimacy outside the comfort and seclusion of their own home. Or rather, the home that was shared with him. Despite Thomas' gentle words and assurances, he had felt shame. Not from Thomas, no, but from the nature of their relationship itself. The looks they would sometimes get whenever Thomas held his hand... The smirks, the whispers... They were few and far between, but each time they had made him feel lower than the dirt beneath his shoes. After the accident --after this past year, really--, James realized just how foolish he had been. Now he couldn't find it in himself to care who saw them. All that mattered was the man entwined in his arms. That he knew he was cared for; that he wasn't alone.

Once John seemed to have settled, James placed a kiss against his forehead before withdrawing a few inches. He couldn't help but smile at the way John blinked slowly at the sudden loss of his lips. When those blue eyes peered up at him they were still unguarded, allowing him a glimpse of the weariness that lingered beneath the surface.

"Still feeling up for coffee?" James asked gently. As he spoke he adjusted the knit scarf wound around John's neck.

John visibly hesitated. "I don't know if caffeine would be a good idea right now..." he muttered sheepishly.

"Tea, then?"

This time John's lip twitched upwards in a smile. "Alright," he finally conceded with a shrug. "Alright. That sounds... nice, actually." After a moment he scratched at the back of his head before popping another cigarette between his teeth. "I'll join you in a few, okay?" Despite the usual nonchalance he strived for in his tone, James noticed the way his fingers fumbled with the lighter, the way he played with the cigarette between his teeth.

"Of course..." James combed his fingers through John's curls before gently squeezing the back of his neck. It wasn't until John offered him a small smile not moments later that he felt reassured. Still, as he made his way into the cafe he couldn't help but wonder if John was merely using this as an apportunity to bolt. Or perhaps he wasn't wanting a moment to enjoy a cigarette, but to pop pills? What if, what if, what if? Yet these worries were fleeting at best. He trusted John. Despite his own weaknesses, his own faults, he trusted him... And sure enough, when James glanced over he saw John blowing rings of smoke up towards the sky.

James collected their order and sat down at the small table set beside the window. It was the same table John had invited himself over to all those months ago, and was a spot that had quickly become their own. When John returned not minutes later  the smell of Newport's clung to his clothing and his features were much more relaxed. Still, he seemed to fidget slightly as he sat down and eyed all that he had bought. A decaf latte for himself and a tea for John, as well as scones and a few muffins for good measure. After all, he wasn't certain if John had eaten at all today.

"Mint tea with honey," James explained when John took an experimental taste of his drink. "Your favorite, right?"

John smiled over the edge of the mug before taking another sip. "Right," he agreed with a chuckle. "Thanks."

James could only nod. While he wasn't exactly surprised by the tension that had quickly fallen over them both --he had anticipated it enough to steer clear of full strength coffee himself--, it was still uncomfortable. Such moments always were when you didn't quite know what to say.

John must have started to feel it too for he shifted in his seat. His thumb began to tap against the table, yet it wasn't until he started to bite his lower lip that James found the courage to break the silence.

"So--" Apparently this was all the push John needed, for he was promptly cut off before he could get another word in.

"Why aren't you angry with me?" John demanded.

"Angry?" James repeated dumbly. "Why would I be?"

"Everyone always is," John reasoned with a shrug. His eyes were trained on the mug resting between his hands.

"Everyone?" James couldn't help but ask.

"Muldoon, Max. Billy damn near blew a blood vessel when he found out." John poked at the mint leaf floating on his tea as he spoke. "The only one who wasn't upset was Anne, and that's only because she doesn't really give two fucks about anything provided it has nothing to do with Max or Jack."

"Everyone's always angry," John continued with a sigh, that weary gaze finally raising to meet his own. "They just are. So why aren't you?"

"Do you want me to yell at you?"

John's mouth twitched into a scowl, the man apparently not appreciating his attempt at lightening in the mood. "Of course not."

James sighed heavily before offering a shrug of his shoulder. "What do you want me to say, John?" he asked. "I'm an.. alcoholic." Despite the fact that it was something he had known for some time now, it was still strange hearing it admitted aloud. "I'm hardly in a position to lecture. Besides, I..." Another sigh. "I wasn't even sure if it was any of my business..."

John was watching him carefully. "I think if it'd be anyone else's business, it'd be yours," John spoke lowly, hesitant. "I mean we... are _together_ , aren't we?"

This was the first time either of them had brought up the subject of their relationship. The nature of it, at least. There was certainly something there, something beyond mere friendship, but it was still something they had never actually discussed. For all he knew John didn't consider what they had as something serious or even meaningful, let alone exclusive. Perhaps he was even seeing someone else.

James cleared his throat as he pushed these thoughts aside. He found himself struggling to keep his own gaze from straying away from John's face as he searched for his next words. "I'd like to think that we are, yes." At this, John smiled. "I care for you, John. Deeply. But I'm not angry with you," he continued after a moment. "Concerned and confused, yes... But not angry."

John's faint smile lingered as he broke off a corner of one of the blueberry scones. He fidgeted with it a bit before finally popping in into his mouth.

James allowed him a moment's peace before pressing foreword. "Can I ask you something?"

Despite John's obvious unease he nodded. "Of course." He broke off another small piece, if only to give his hands something to do.

"When did you realize the bag was missing?" While if may seem like an unimportant question to someone else, the answer could potentially fill in a lot of missing spaces without the threat of being too forward. It could tell him how often John used, if he was dependent and took them habitually, or if they were taken few and far between. Perhaps it would even shed some light as to why he used in the first place, whether it be for recreation or to ease his mind during those more stressful days.

John's expression faltered slightly. "After you called this morning," he offered as he scratched the back of his neck. "I, uh, needed something for my hangover."

James' brow raised in mild confusion. "Did something happen last night after I left?" While John wasn't exactly one to turn down a drink --hell, the first time they had actually interacted they had spent the night doing shots--, rarely did he ever have enough to actually get drunk. 

John shook his head. "No. No, I just stayed out too late with Muldoon, is all."

While James could tell that he was leaving something out, he didn't press the matter. Instead he asked a more invasive question; one that had been nagging at the edge of his mind since last night. It certainly didn't help that John's words had raised more questions than answers.

"Can I ask--?"

"--Why?" John finished for him. He smirked slightly before shaking his head. "I use them to take the edge off," he explained nonchalantly. "I don't use them to get high, at least not anymore."

James released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "That's fair," he murmured.

That smirk persisted. "Any more questions?" Despite his words, both his tone and his expression were welcoming. Teasing, even. However, that was likely just John working to lessen his own discomfort.

James shook his head. "Not really." An obvious lie, but he trusted John would tell him more when he felt that the time was right. When he felt comfortable enough to do so. Until then, "Just... promise me you'll be careful, alright?" 

Instead of answering like a normal person would, John merely extended his pinky. A small smile was still on his lips, and James could feel the corner of his own mouth twitch upward. After a moment's hesitation at the sheer absurdity of it, he extended his own hand so that they could lock pinkies in a silent promise.

Several minutes passed before either of them spoke up once more. John focused on finishing his tea before it grew cold and even scarfed down a muffin. James' own coffee had long started to cool off, but he couldn't care less. Instead his attention remained focused on the man sitting across from him.

"You should come home with me tonight," James blurted out. John coughed on his mouthful of food at the sudden suggestion. "I mean-- Spend the night again. If you want to."

John managed to swallow before casting him quite the suspicious look. "You don't need to babysit me," he pointed out, his tone possessing a sharp edge that he wasn't quite used to.

"That's not why," James frowned. He fumbled with the cup between his hands before speaking once more. Sharing his thoughts and feelings like this was something he doubted he would ever be comfortable with it. But for John, he would at least try. He  _wanted_ to try. "It was nice.. Having you there."

At this John's expression softened. "Well," he offered after a moment, pausing so that he could reach across the table and play with James' hand. "I can hardly pass that up, now can I?" Beneath John's touch James immediately stopped fidgeting. "Will you cook for me again?"

"Of course," James chuckled. "What do you want for dinner?" When John smirked lewdly James could feel the flush of heat fill his cheeks. "Christ," he swore beneath his breath.

* * *

 

The two of them stayed there at the coffee house for several more hours. They ordered more tea and some actual food --this time John insisting that he pay--, and talked. About their future plans for the week, John's music and James' photography; little things like that. Subjects that were still interesting, certainly, but far less loaded than their own respective drug use. Slowly yet surely, James could feel the barrier of tension gradually dissipate. Once they finished their late lunch they took to meandering around the city like they usually did. Eventually John's hand found his own and they laced fingers. The gesture, though innocent enough, sent sparks of electricity shooting up his arm to the crown of his head. One that spread warmth through his chest and made his mind swim. It was a sensation he had felt several times before these past several weeks, and was reminiscent of what he had encountered with Thomas. Yet it wasn't until that evening that James felt confident enough to speak its name, even within the seclusion of his own mind.

James leaned against the door frame of his bedroom, his thumb slowly rotating the ring on his forefinger as he took in the sight before him. After hours of walking through the park and stopping at Nassau's for a beer, they had finally returned home. James had cooked another dinner for the two of them while John sat perched on the counter and teased him about not setting off the fire alarm this time. Later they went outside to smoke on the deck, and John showed him how to blow rings. Or rather he tried to, as James found it to be impossible.

When John eventually reached into his pocket to slip a pill beneath his tongue, James fought to avert his gaze. " _Xanax,"_ John had assured him quietly. James only nodded. He didn't want to push, to pry, but he couldn't deny that this entire situation still made his palms grow sweaty and his mind buzz. It had apparently been enough for John to pick up on, for when they went back inside John abandoned the small baggie on the counter top before settling in for a night of tv.

Now, as James watched over John's sleeping form, he felt that familiar tug within his chest. _Love._ He was in love with John Silver. All of him. And while he couldn't utter those three words aloud --not right now, not this soon--, he knew it to be true. He felt it as he watched John shift beneath the covers, as those dark ringlets spilled passed his shoulder as he pulled the pillow closer against his face. When John had said they were both broken he had been right. They each had their issues, their own pasts and dark secrets, their own struggles. But even if a teacup was cracked or even broken beyond repair, it didn't make it any less beautiful.

James looked down as he continued to spin the silver ring on his finger. It was the one both Thomas and Miranda had gifted to him as an expression of their love. It was something he had refused to take off after the accident in his own vain attempt at clinging to the past. After taking a deep breath, James worked it loose from his finger. Though his heart drummed in his chest, he knew that it was time. He didn't need it anymore. Miranda had realized long ago that nothing good came from clinging to it, and now it was finally his turn. Now, he knew that taking it off didn't diminish the love he had felt for Thomas. It didn't tarnish his memory or swipe their relationship beneath a rug. Instead, it merely signified how he was now wishing to move forward.

Briefly, James clutched it in his palm before moving away from the door. He set the ring down on the nightstand before changing into a fresh t-shirt and sweats and climbing into bed. Almost immediately John shifted in his sleep. He released the pillow so that he could instead cuddle close against James' chest. John's hair tickled against his cheek as the man mumbled nonsensically into his neck. James released another breath before winding his arms around him. He held him close, reveling in the warmth of that body pressed so close against him. His fingers burried into those dark curls as he breathed in the scent of him, and gradually he fell asleep, thoughts and memories of John soothing his dreams.


	19. Know No Shame

The hour was just before sunrise when James awoke the next morning. He stirred slowly, his eyes just barely cracking open to take in the distorted shadows that surrounded them, brought to life by the faint glow of the approaching sun. A soft sigh passed his lips before his eyes fell shut once more. Normally --or rather, what could reasonably be considered "normal" being that John had only slept over here a handful of times--, he would need to reach out in search of John's sleeping form to assure himself that he was still there. That he hadn't left in the middle of the night without offering a single word. That, as impossible a fear as one could have, John's comforting presence hadn't been a figment of his imagination all along. An intricate illusion that would shatter the moment he dared to open his eyes to face the new day.

Now, however, it wasn't necessary. James didn't need to search the shadows for the gentle rise and fall of that distinctive silhouette. He didn't need to reach out to feel the warmth of his skin, to seek the tangled mess of his curls. He didn't need to bridge the space between them, for this morning there was none to speak of. Just as they had been the night before when James finally drifted off to sleep, John was bundled close in his arms. He felt him, all of him, from the soft breath that tickled against his neck to the leg that crossed over his own. They were perfectly aligned, it seemed. In fact, the way their bodies so effortlessly slotted together begged the question of if they had been made to find each other all along.

Like a piece found at the center of a puzzle, James now realized that he was capable of forming more than just one meaningful connection. Thomas had been his closest companion, his first true love. That fact didn't mean he couldn't learn to love another just as fiercely. It didn't diminish his feelings for John, just as it didn't cause their deepening relationship to become any less significant and unique. He was but yet another missing piece of the puzzle, perhaps a bit bent and scuffed around the edges like his own, and was one he would fight to keep a hold of.

James shifted against the mattress, his arms curling up around John's back to hold him ever closer --were such a thing even possible. His thumb slipped beneath the hem of John's plain white t-shirt, or rather the one that he had borrowed, to seek the supple skin hidden underneath. The heat that radiated from him likened to that of a furnace, one that seared his skin like a brand and sent him craving more. The winter morning air was chilling even within the confines of his home, but here beneath the sheets with John's head tucked under his chin, he had never felt so safe and warm. The steady rise and fall of that chest against his own, the hard muscle beneath soft skin, the scent of his coconut shampoo and the peppermint of his toothpaste... James reveled in it all.

James buried his nose against that unruly mop of black curls so that he could better take in the scent of him. It was intoxicating. Combined with the way John nosed against the crook of his neck, a gentle sigh ghosting across his skin as he did so, he almost drifted back to sleep. _Almost._

James blinked back his confusion as he fought to identify the strange tension that had suddenly formed deep within his gut. It was oddly familiar, like a thick cord that had been pulled taught, yet was not unwelcome. It took him just a few moments, and a slight change in his position, to recognize what it was. _He was_ _half hard._ The flush of embarrassment that filled his cheeks was immediate and certainly made him grateful for the darkness that accompanied the early hour. Even if John were to stir, it would be far too dark for him to take notice of that flustered shade of red. 

With great care James extracted himself from the mess of entangled limbs and twisted bed sheets. He moved slowly, weary of waking John as he uncurled his fingers from where they had clutched the front of his shirt sometime during the night. Afterwards, as his fingertips continued to ghost over John's knuckles, he couldn't help but admire his features. Even in his slumber he appeared no less magnificent than an angel sculpted by Michelangelo himself. The curve of his lips, the faint arch of his brow, the dark ringlets that sloped past his shoulders... He was stunning. Even without that blinding smile or the charm that glinted in his eyes, he just _was_. And suddenly, as another surge of blood was sent straight to his cock, James was reminded of just why he had started crawling out of bed in the first place.

The blush that now colored James' cheeks was practically scalding. With a silent curse he tore his eyes away from the sight -for that's what John truly was, a sight-- before climbing out of bed. As he did so he awkwardly reached down to adjust where he had begun to tent his sweatpants. The silver ring set atop the nightstand was glanced at only briefly as James wiped the sleep from his eyes and headed towards the bathroom. It was partly due to shame that he averted his gaze; partly from something else that he couldn't quite identify. Regardless of what it was --fear, guilt, or what-have-you--, he didn't want to consider it right now. The only thing he wanted was to rid himself of this inconvenient problem as quickly as possible.

Had his gaze lingered upon John's face for a few seconds longer he would have seen the smug smirk that curled at the edge of his mouth. He would have seen the crystalline blue of his irises as he blinked up at him, his eyes still heavy with sleep yet full of mischief, as he pushed himself up onto his elbow so that he could better admire his retreat. Yet James hadn't, he had turned his back, and so he didn't see any of these things. Instead, all he had was the soft click of the door as he pulled it shut behind him.

James scrubbed a hand across his face as he leaned back against the door with a heavy sigh. Fingers combed back aimlessly through his hair before scratching at the thickening stubble on his cheek. All the while he tried to calm his mess of thoughts; or rather, stifle them completely. As the minutes passed by with no success at willing away the evidence of his unwanted arousal, he let out a swear. Waking up with a hard-on like some hormonal teenager... What was wrong with him? Yet when his gaze finally raised to meet the reflection in the bathroom mirror, it gave him pause. He almost didn't recognize himself.

The short beard and mustache that hardened his features, the untamed auburn locks that were usually tied back in a queue... These features were what rung as familiar. When he took that downward spiral after the car accident his ability to take part in self-care was the first thing to go. It always was when it came to depression, or so he had been told. He hadn't had the energy to eat, let alone shower or even shave. Not that he had ever had a problem with a bit of scruff, so long as it was well-groomed. Though Thomas had always loved his face when it was freshly-shaven. He remembered the way Thomas would smile, admiring the smoothness with a caress of his thumb as he told him how handsome he was. How beautiful his features were and how it would practically be a crime to hide them.

Once James had begun to recover --or at the very least get a grip over himself--, he had elected to keep the facial hair. It didn't look half bad, but more than that he was still far too drained to maintain such a close shave. He had allowed the rest of his hair to grow a bit longer as well. Now, as he looked over his reflection, he realized that there was nothing wrong with him at all. There were no longer dark shadows beneath his eyes and his worry lines had begun to disappear. He had slowly regained the weight he had lost, and the eyes that stared back at him now were warm and green instead of empty and bloodshot. His appearance had changed a bit since he was with Thomas, yes, but other than that.. he was fine. For the first time in the past year he _saw himself_. He was well-rested. He was healthy. Happy, even... There was nothing wrong with him, in fact it was the exact opposite. After a long and hard fight, he was finally healing... Just as Miranda had wished for him time and time again, he was moving on. Only now it was with John.

_John..._

James closed his eyes as he drew in a steadying breath. There was nothing wrong with him for falling in love with another man... There wasn't. It was what Thomas would have wanted, what Miranda silently encouraged. Similarly, there was no fault in him lusting after another, either. He was only human. He remembered those mornings waking up in Thomas' embrace, already warm and eager for his touch despite the exhausting night beforehand. This was no different, despite the initial unease --and perhaps even guilt-- that had goaded him otherwise. There was no shame in his urges, in craving the caress of John's lips and the touch of his wandering hands. It was merely a trick of his mind, one borne from how long he had gone without. Without intimacy, without the touch of another or even his own... How long he had gone without genuine _want_. And _God_ , how he wanted John now. Despite his imperfections and the darkness of his own struggles, he wanted him .

James reached down almost tentatively to feel over the front of his sweatpants. He was still hard. It took James a few moments to fight down the lump in his throat, but once he had he pushed forward with his resolve. He refused to continue clinging to the guilt and shame that only served to weigh him down. These past several weeks spent with John.. They had rescued him from the rough waters he had been drowning in, if only just. Only recently had he finally broken through the surface of the waves. Still, those torrid waters threatened to pull him under with each breaking wave and changing current. Now he wished to free himself of those churning depths for good. He would reach for that tether and take hold, and, eventually, he and John would navigate their way back to land. Together.

John..

The tip of James' tongue just barely reached out to wet his lower lip as his eyes slipped shut, his thoughts drifting to John once more. Only this time he did so without restraint. He thought on the warm sensation that suffused through his chest each and every time those lips pressed against his own. The taste of his tongue as he licked into his mouth, so daring and mischievous, and so unabashed in his affection. James palmed himself slowly, allowing his fingers to delve beneath the hem of his pants as he reminisced. He thought back to just the other day when John had crawled into his lap, those gorgeous thighs bracketing his sides. He remembered the heat that had flared through him, extending to even his groin, from the intimacy of such close contact. The weight of John spread across his lap, the slight roll of his hips as he pressed close. The way those fingers had grasped blindly at his jaw before settling at the nape of his neck as they kissed.

James dared to imagine where the night may have gone had Miranda not interrupted them. John had assured him time and time again that he had no qualm with taking things slowly. That he wasn't just looking for some quick fuck, and that he understood James' desire to ease back into any sort of relationship, physical or otherwise. Even so, there was no denying the lust that had burned deep within his eyes as he hovered over him. The press of those fingers against his chest were seeking and desperate, just as they were full of longing as they tangled into his hair. Combined with the hot breath that huffed out against his lips, it had been nothing less than a silent plea for more.

James swallowed down his faint sighs and breathless moans as he continued to stroke himself from root to tip. With each teasing image and memory of John he drew ever closer to that precipice. Time and time again the man's name danced across the tip of his tongue, and with each instance the fight to remain silent became more difficult. He thought back to that morning John had stepped out of the shower with nothing but a white towel clinging to his hips. He remembered the beads of water that had dripped from his curls and trailed down his chest, following the lines of muscle before soaking into the plump cotton fabric. He recalled the lewd smirk that had lifted at his lips before letting the towel slide to the floor seconds later. 

As James quickened his pace, his free hand gripping the sink, he mentally kicked himself for having looked away. John was absolutely beautiful, injury and all. He could only imagine what the rest of him looked like... Briefly James wondered if he was cut like himself or if he had been left uncircumcised. Whether John was more "gifted" in length or in girth, and if he was as well-endowed as his cocky attitude alluded. But more than anything else he wondered what he tasted like, how it would feel to have that length pillowed on his tongue. If John would be loud and unabashed in his pleasure, or if he would bite down on his lower lip to stifle his moans. He wondered if John would be docile and take what he was given, or if he would grip his hair with each shallow thrust into his throat.

When James came over his fist moments later he did so with a hiss. His eyes squeezed shut, the pleasure of his orgasm causing his breath to stutter in his chest. He gulped at the air, his eyes only opening once he had finally managed to regain his breath. Surprisingly, there was no disgust when he peered down at the mess of white that coated his fingers. Instead, in its place there was only calm curiosity as well as a sense of weightlessness. While this was not the first time he had experienced such an urge since the accident, this was the first time he had ever acted upon it. Usually any sexual thoughts were shut down the moment they began to brew, crushed beneath the weight of guilt. And even if they did persist, they were promptly resolved with a cold shower.

Once more James glanced up at the man in the mirror. The color that resided high in his cheeks only heightened the heady black that had eclipsed his eyes. After a pause he swallowed down the trace of budding anxiety and set to cleaning himself up. Yet as he washed his hands his gaze drifted down to where that ring had rested for so long. The thin band of pale flesh stood out even among the splattering of freckles. Now that he thought about it, this was likely the first time he had ever taken it off... Quickly James forced these thoughts aside and hopped into the shower. There he could better clear his mind beneath the steady stream of hot water.

By the time James emerged from the bathroom John had disappeared and the room was empty. The bed had been made, albeit half-assed, the curtains had been drawn aside, and his prosthetic was also missing. Then again that wasn't so unusual. By now he trusted that John wouldn't just up and leave without any warning. Not after last night when he had slept so soundly in his arms, even after confronting him about discovering his stash of pills. The moment James picked up that small bag he realized he was in this for the long haul; more than that, he wanted to be. And after John had faced him despite the obvious fear that weighed on him, perhaps he was as well.

James toweled off his still-dripping hair as he meandered over to the nightstand. After a breadth of hesitation he plucked the silver ring from where he had placed it beside his favorite book --which had also been a gift from Thomas. He let the towel hang over his shoulder as he turned the ring over in his palm. It was a small band, plain and modest in appearance. Yet if he tilted it just so he could make out the inscription that ran along the inside:  _Know no shame._

After so long, reading over the elegant script caused him to release a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. Thomas had offered this advice to him several times over, both in spoken words and through actions, and always in a different way. And here those words were immortalized forever. Thomas' wish that he would never feel shame for those he loved, whoever that may be. James swallowed as his fingers closed around the ring, pressing it deep into his palm. The next time he released a breath it practically shook from his chest.

James touched his lips to his knuckles, taking a moment to compose himself before uncurling his fingers. With unhurried movements he slid open the top drawer of the nightstand, shuffling around the notes, photos, and other trinkets that rested inside, before finally finding what he was looking for. It was a small round box crafted from cedar, and was roughly larger than a coin. It was what Thomas had used to present him with the ring, and what he returned it to now. He would never stop loving Thomas, but now it was time he allowed himself to open his heart to another...

As James made his way down the stairs the scent of waffles reached his nostrils. A small smile twitched at the edge of his mouth as he moved into the kitchen. John was humming softly as he fetched two plates from the cupboard, the man then shifting onto his good leg so that he could reach the sugar that rested a few shelves up. Still, it was just out of reach.

John seemed oblivious to his presence until James stepped up behind him and grabbed the sugar. John started, the shock coloring his expression quickly melting into a smile as the sugar was handed to him. "Thanks," he chuckled awkwardly.

"I thought you didn't cook?" James couldn't help but ask.

"I don't know about you, but I don't really think putting frozen Eggos in a toaster can be considered 'cooking'." James hummed, refusing to disagree. The lack of a proper response only caused John's smile to transform into a smirk. "You sleep alright?" he asked then, effectively changing the subject as he piled two waffles on the second plate.

James nodded, refusing to make eye contact as he struggled to avoid thinking about just how well he had slept. Or rather, woken up. Before he cold return the same question, John interjected.

"I'll say," John chuckled. "You seemed to have a hard time waking up this morning..." James arched a brow, curious by the mischief that thickened his tone. It wasn't until his next words that he understood just what he was referring to. "You're quite the working stiff."

James balked in horror, that telling shade of scarlet immediately rushing to fill his cheeks once more. "I-- You..." He sighed, shaking his head as he combed his fingers through his hair. "You... know?"

"Well yeah," John chuckled, his eyes refusing to stray from his own as he leaned back against the counter. Based on his expression he was thoroughly enjoying this. "I felt it on my hip."

"I'm sorry--" James stammered.

Now it was John's turn to look confused, though it only lasted a moment. "Don't be," he assured him as that coy smile returned moments later. "I was actually quite close to knocking on the door and asking if you needed a hand."

By now James was fairly certain that all the blood in his body had pooled into his cheeks. The warmth there only intensified when John took his face in his hands and placed a soft kiss against his lips. James returned it just as gently, his eyes only opening when John spoke again.

"James... The other day, when you said you'd like to think we were together..." John swallowed as he shifted his gaze. "I'm not seeing anyone else. I don't _want_ to see anyone else."

"Neither do I.."

John's lip twitched slightly as he glanced over at the counter. James didn't have to turn and look go tell that he was looking at the abandoned bag of pills. "Even now?"

James captured John's chin between his thumb and forefinger so that he could pull him close, silently answering the question with a passionate press of his lips. This one was slow and tender, the kind of kiss that left them both flushed and breathless by the time they finally separated.

Despite the color that darkened John's own cheeks, he smirked. "Does this mean you're my _boyfriend_ now?" he teased, any previous unease giving way to a shit-eating grin.

"Shut up," James chuckled before silencing him with another kiss.


	20. I know It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit on the short side, I do apologize

_I don't want to be with anyone else, I just want to be with you._

These were words James never thought he would utter again in his lifetime. Not within his own mind, not to himself, and certainly not to anyone else. If James was being perfectly honest with himself, had never been considered much of a romantic. He had experienced flings during his youth, yes, and had dated and taken part in serious relationships once he had matured. But genuine romance, love... That was something he had never experienced until Thomas. It was something he had never truly desired, either. To allow oneself to become so vulnerable and exposed to another was never something he had found appealing. Just as how he could never understand how someone could allow another play such a crucial role in their own happiness and well-being.

When he met Thomas, he understood. Though it was certainly not instantaneous, James eventually began to realize just how it was that love worked. It wasn't something one chose, something one bargained with. It just _was_. It was an all-consuming, painful, wonderful thing. And after he lost Thomas, he had resolved himself to never experiencing it again. He had loved Miranda in fact he still did and likely always would. But what he had shared with Thomas.. it was something else entirely. Something that left such a momentous void in its wake. One that couldn't ever be filled or mended, even if he did believe himself deserving of a second chance.

Yet just as it had been proven before, love was never so simple. While Thomas had come into his life by mere chance and good fortune, John had wormed his way in by sheer willpower alone. And by God, was James grateful that he did. He was thankful for that charming tease, that cocky musician, that stubborn fool of a man, who had sent over that single shot of alcohol again and again, week after week, until finally that offering was accepted and thrown back. Even if it was done in a case of "oh fuck it", and only to top off the rum and vodka he had been nursing that entire day.

John was by far the best drunken mistake he had ever made. And James told him this, whispered it against those lips as John chuckled, those tanned arms wrapping around his shoulders to coax him close for another kiss. As they tangled into one another, his prosthetic leg moving to curl around his waist, John asked a favor of him: That if he ever felt like making another more daring mistake, to let him know. James let out a breathy laugh before agreeing.

Even though James didn't dare give these thoughts voice, and likely wouldn't for quite some time, he felt them as they swelled in his chest. _I love you._ So strong and with such clarity; something he never thought he'd experience again. Part of him sensed that John could feel it too. If not in the way their mouths pressed together in a searing kiss, then from the gentle glide of his fingers through those curls.

By the time they finally separated a lopsided grin had warmed John's features. It spread across his face, reaching his very eyes with a glimmer that seemed few and far between. James cradled his jaw, his thumbs carrassing those flush cheeks before placing a final kiss atop his forehead. Apparently it had not gone unnoticed that he had removed his ring, for just as he was withdrawing John took his hand in his own. While John didn't exactly mention it, he did trace his fingertips over where that silver band had resided for so long. That thin stripe of pale flesh that was just a touch lighter than the rest of him. It was an uncharacteristically tender moment, one that was swiftly ruined the moment John opened his mouth.

"Really, though," John pressed, his gaze flicking upward as that smile turned into something lewd. "You feel like you need an extra pair of hands the next time you jack off, let me know."

James answered by shoving a waffle into that laughing face. 

* * *

 

John ended up staying over at James' flat for the next three days. Just as before, there was nary a complaint to be had with the arrangement, even when John did boarder along the lines of being untidy. It was quite easy to overlook, as James hadn't realized just how much he had missed sharing his space with another. Being an only child, he had always harbored a strong sense of independence. He was self-reliant and perfectly comfortable with his own company. To him, there was great comfort to be found in silence. Yet both Miranda and Thomas had shown him how satisfying it could be to open one's home to another. The warmth, the closeness... The satisfaction of enjoying that peaceful quiet with another.

After Thomas' death Miranda had remained by his side for several months as they both sought to cope with the loss, yet eventually even she took her leave. It was then that spending his days alone crossed over into actually being.. lonely. It was something he hadn't experienced since he was a youth, closeted and troubled, and still trying to reconcile his own sexual identity. Only this time the monsters he faced were far more daunting. They took the form of whispered words and suffocating guilt. And now here was this John Silver. A man whose very touch sent those demons scurrying back to the shadows where they belonged, despite the ones that say on his own shoulders.

John had kept him from drowning in his own sorrows, and now it was time for James to return the favor. Whatever darkness John faced, no longer would he need to do it alone.

James tried not to dwell too heavily on these matters, truly he did. Instead he tried to focus on the fingers that brushed against his own as he drifted off to sleep each night, and on the mop of black curls that tickled his nose when he awoke. He tried to focus on the way John would peer up at him with that lazy grin before stealing a kiss. The way John's hand would brush over his thigh, as if by accident, only to be followed by an unconvincing "oops". The way he felt no modesty and allowed his towel to drop to the floor after taking a shower, even if he was still dripping wet. The way he pressed up against him as they lounged on the couch each night, James with a book and John a remote. He tried to concentrate on the way those touches, both seemingly innocent and daring alike, reawakened something within him. Something of a more primal nature. It was almost funny how John's wandering hands and lewd smirks took him back to a time when he was a hormonal teenager. And by funny, he meant maddening.

James didn't mind the man teasing against his boundaries. Truly he didn't, it didn't matter the context. It was one of the reasons why he had loved Thomas so much. The man had never been afraid to challenge him or anyone else. So too did John test his limits, though in a strikingly different manner. Instead of spending late nights lost in passionate debates over literature or politics, John challenged him on a more intimate level. Not just in regard to facing the crippling fear brought about by his panic attacks, nor his guilt over the car accident. Not even his dependence on alcohol, something he had only just begun to admit to himself. More significantly, John pushed him to start swimming toward to the surface of the ocean he had spent the last year drowning in. Until finally his head had broken through the crashing waves.

John was teaching him how to trust again, to live again... To love again. And even though there were times when he annoyed the hell out of him, for there were many, he had come to care for him more than he thought possible. But more than that he had come to depend on him, and in ways he wasn't entirely conscious of yet.

It was unfortunate just how quickly those three days had passed them by. They shared soft kisses and wandering touches, quiet nights and slow mornings. Right off the bat John had talked him into taking another trip to the grocery store, this time the drive not so much as threatening a flare of anxiety, and stocked his fridge enough for the next several weeks. Yet James had always been a bargaining man, and so as a compromise for this impromptu trip, he gave John a short cooking lesson. Nothing too extravagant, just how to glaze and cook a ham. With a scowl John had asked if this had anything to do with the story he had shared of giving both Muldoon and himself food poisoning. James had only smirked in response.

Despite it all, James' couldn't help the way his thoughts drifted towards darker things. While neither of them mentioned it, for James wouldn't dare to press until John was ready, the reality of his drug use remained at the edge of his mind. If not from the way those blue eyes kept flitting towards the abandoned baggie on the counter whenever it was near, then from the way his hands fidgeted so restlessly. James still couldn't believe how it had escaped his noticed. The times John stepped out claiming to need a cigarette only to return without a trace of smoke clinging to him. The way his pupils would occasionally be dilated.

Yet since their confrontation --if it could even be considered as such--, James could tell that John was trying to put some distance between himself and the pills. If not by stopping cold turkey, than at the very least by cutting back. These efforts were made obvious by the abrupt and drastic increase in his smoking. Normally John would only indulge in a few cigarettes spread throughout the day, yet over the past three he had gone through several packs. Not to mention James could now feel the man as he tossed and turned in his sleep. Not from relentless nightmares that he himself was accustomed to, but from sheer restlessness. Still, neither of them spoke of it. For John it was likely from a combination of denial and stubbornness. For James it was from uncertainty about his own footing in the matter.

While John had gone back to sleeping at his own apartment, they continued to spend time together during the day. They resumed their lunch dates at the coffee shop, their walks about the city. James would drive him down to Nassau's when he was scheduled to play, the man having made great strides in his comfort behind the wheel, and stay there for several sets. Ones that he would thoroughly enjoy listening to, and without ever feeling compelled to down his usual two apple cider lagers. He exchanged warm words with Eleanor over the bar and polite conversation with Muldoon and the other band members when they took a break in-between songs. It did not go unnoticed how Max, who John assured him was one of his closest friends --as a warning not to act like an ass--, would aim him knowing smiles over the brim of her glass.

After a particularly bustling night at the bar, one that was concluded by a spectacular set debuting a new song, the band decided to top it off the by visiting one of the local clubs. All except for John. While the genuine smile that crossed his features left him glowing, the exhaustion that began to weigh on him was obvious, at least to James. He could see it in his eyes as he leaned in close to share a kiss. One that James readily returned, even from where they stood at the center of the crowded room.

"It's late," John offered, his fingers tugging lightly at the front of his coat as he fought back a yawn. "You can take off, I'm gonna catch a cab."

"I can take you home." The words left James' lips before he even had the chance to mull them over. Yet even if he had, it wouldn't have changed his mind.

John quirked a brow. "You sure? It's several miles from here," he reminded him, uncertain. James swallowed down any budding unease before offering a nod. At this John could only smile. "Alright..."

"Alright," James repeated. His own mouth twitched upwards in a faint smile as he wrapped his scarf around John's neck.


	21. Home is Where the Guitar Is

Now that John and his band mates had concluded their final performance of the evening, the bar was once again bustling with the noise and chatter typical of a Friday night. Just beneath the hearty laughter and clinking glass James could make out the 90’s rock that resonated from the jute box in the corner. While the familiar tunes were pleasing enough to the ear, he much rather preferred listening to John and the rest of _The Ranger_. Well okay, mostly just John. As far as he was concerned, even his old favorites couldn’t compare to the drawn-out cords of that acoustic guitar.

Each and every night James was able to witness just how invested John was in the performances. Whether it was in the smile that warmed his features as his fingers danced across the strings or the way his body seemed to rise and fall in time with the score, there was no mistaking it. And rare though it was for him to provide the key vocals for a song, whenever he did that gentle timber was enough to capture the attention of the entire room.

John's passion, both for performing and for the music itself, was strong and undeniable. So much so, in fact, that James couldn’t help but wonder if that was what managed to keep his anxiety at bay in the first place, even now. The confidence that radiated from him was palpable in a way that only served to anchor him to the present. What’s more, those bright blue eyes were enough to  illuminate even the darkest shadows; even if they were alight with mischief more often than naught. Simply being in his presence made James feel safe and secure. That had always been the case, even those months ago when John was little more than a cocky flirt smiling at him from across the bar.

James paid little mind to the strangers that bumped into him in passing, even when they invaded his personal space to lean across the counter and flag down another drink. Similarly, so too did he ignore the unease bubbling up at the at the edge of his mind. Instead he allowed his sole focus to remain on the curly-haired musician. He watched the tired smile that pulled at John's lips as he bid the others goodnight, giving Muldoon a one-armed hug and Max a kiss on the cheek.

It only took John a minute or two to gather up his belongings for the ride home. After all, he never seemed to bring much with him on these gigs of his, and this one was certainly no exception. All he had was the coat on his back, the phone in his pocket, and the guitar case in his hand. And, of course, the wool knit scarf wrapped around his shoulders. The same one that couldn't help but exchange hands each and every time they saw each other.

James shifted off the bar stool once John was once again within earshot. "Ready?" he asked rather stupidly.

John tucked a stray curl behind his ear before scratching at the back of his neck. "You sure about this?" he countered, ignoring the question in favor of his own. "I take cabs this late at night all the time, if that's what you're worried about. I don't want to... you know." He gestured vaguely.

James gave a shake of his head as he took in the other man's expression. Though John was quite the adept actor when he set his mind to it, at the moment he was able to see through that deceptive veil. He was nervous... But why?

"I'm sure, John," James assured him before placing a kiss against his forehead. "It's no trouble, really." He wanted to do this for him. To take that giant leap outside his comfort zone, and for once to do it of his own volition. Even if that ever-present anxiety were to progress to an all-out panic, as it so often did, he wanted to at least _try_.

"Alright," John eventually resigned.

Unlike just a few minutes ago, the word was not spoken with bright  eyes and a warm smile. Instead, it was now accompanied by a dark shadow cast over John's expression. The uncertainty that flickered in those eyes rung painfully familiar, just as the way John's hands had shoved themselves into his pockets to conceal any fidgeting. Yet it lasted but a moment. 

Before James could so much as open his mouth to ask if he were alright, that practiced smile had returned. Seemingly effortless, it was rather convincing. But Flint knew better than that by now. _Finally_ , he knew better. Even so he refused to push or pry, or to do anything that could potentially worsen John's apparent uncertainty. Especially not in such a public setting. So instead James simply nodded, his fingers grazing over John's as he took the guitar off his hands, and led the way outside.

It was a rather brisk evening being that it was only February. Still, James couldn't find it in himself to mind. Having spent the majority of his childhood in London, he was well accustomed to the frigid winters that left others shaking in their boots. He was just thankful that it had been a relatively dry season. Driving through snow and sleet was the last thing he needed while getting reacquainted with being behind the wheel. Even now the roads were largely cleared of any snow, and as they made their way across the street the patches of ice were easily avoided. However, that didn't deter James' free hand from finding the small of John's back to ensure that the other kept his balance.

James loaded the guitar into the trunk as John finished off the last of his cigarette, both seeming to enjoy the quiet sense of understanding that existed between the two of them. The moment the key turned in the ignition John went about making himself comfortable, just as he always did. He fiddled with the radio dial until he found his preferred station, one belting out a heavy rock and roll, and adjusted the volume. The heat kicked on moments later.

With an airy sigh John scrunched back in the passenger seat. His hands were still stuffed deep into his coat pockets, and with the edge of the scarf now hugging around his ears he looked perfectly content. In fact, with the way his eyes had fallen shut James couldn't help but wonder if were about to fall asleep at any moment.

James smirked a bit at the sight. "Come on, John," he coaxed as he put the car in drive. "You need to give me directions, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah..."

James could hear the smile in John's voice before he even turned to glance at him. And sure enough there it was, soft and slight yet genuine all the same.

John hadn't exaggerated when he said the drive would be several miles out of the way. What James hadn't anticipated was that the trek would send them further into the city. Then again he supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised. Rent was always cheaper in the rougher parts outside center city, and as John didn't have a roommate... Well, options were limited.

James found himself recognizing some of the buildings as they drove through downtown. He had frequented this block many times during his photography treks. The tall ornate structures, the dated architecture... It was all very picturesque, at least during the day. Fortunately, the fond memories of those afternoons proved enough to keep him relatively calm, even now in the dark.

Unfortunately, it couldn't last. The farther they traveled the more unfamiliar the territory grew, and the darker and more intimidating it became. Yet it until James turned onto a small side street he that the pent-up anxiety inevitably found him. Even with John providing the directions it didn't change the fact that James didn't know this particular area of town. What's more, it was a narrow, one-way street. Combined with the parked cars on either side, it was more than enough to make him feel claustrophobic.

_I can't do this._

Almost immediately James began to thumb at the base of his finger, just as he always did when his nerves became too much for him. When he needed something to ground him. Only this time, the silver band Thomas had given him was no longer there. 

It was at that exact moment of realization that John's hand found his own. Those fingers intertwined with his before giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"It's alright," John reminded him.

James nodded as he swallowed down the thickening lump in his throat. While he didn't dare take his eyes off the road for anything longer than a glance, he did return the gesture by righting his own hold on John's hand.

"I know..."

Even when James released that steadying hand in favor of the steering wheel, John seemed to sense that he still craved -- _still needed_ \-- some form of contact to help ease his mind. And so John seamlessly moved to rest his hand atop James' leg. It was an innocent touch, right above the knee, but was enough to solidify the fact that John was still there. That he wasn't alone. And by God, did James appreciate it.

It wasn't until they were finally parked outside that James realized this was his first time seeing where John lived. He supposed he hadn't really thought about it before. Whenever they happened to spend the night together it had always been at his own flat, mostly out of convenience and just because that's where James was most comfortable. Not to mention that John tended to hitch a ride home with either Muldoon or Billy. It had just never come up.

Wait... Was this why John was so nervous? Because he didn't want him here?

It was this consideration that kept James' grip on the keys even after killing the engine. He didn't want to make John feel uncomfortable, certainly. But what if John thought that the offer to take him home was nothing more than an excuse to snoop? What if he thought he didn't trust him, that he was merely intending to "babysit" him, as he had said before? What if, what if, what if...?

"Do you want to come up for a nightcap?"

The sound of John's voice was enough to pull James back from his thoughts. What's more, it alerted him to the fact that he'd been staring straight ahead without offering a single word for several moments now. And based off John's tone, it was worrying him.

James swallowed thickly. "Are you sure?" Apparently it was now his turn to feel as though he were imposing.

John merely chuckled. "Yeah. You can crash here too, if you want. My bed gets pretty cold without anyone else in it, and I've grown quite spoiled sleeping next to you." With that John climbed out of the car. He was so certain that James would follow that he didn't even bother waiting for a response.

Sure enough, John knew him far too well. If the opportunity to spend another night with that curly head tucked beneath his chin wasn't inviting enough, James would certainly feel more comfortable driving home in broad daylight. And so, with a faint sigh and a soft smile, James pulled the keys from the ignition and went to pop the trunk.

The two of them ended up taking the stairwell in lieu of the elevator. While John only lived on the fourth floor of the complex, the walk provided ample time for him to finish another cigarette. James didn't bother pointing out the "No Smoking" signs posted on each level. John looked exhausted, and that fact alone was enough to prove that it had been an unusually long day. After all, it took a lot to crack John's mask.

"Here we are..." 

John's voice was accompanied by the jingling of keys, and James glanced up just in time to see him tear a fluorescent green sheet off the door. The piece of paper was promptly crumpled up and stuffed into his coat pocket. The cavalier attitude in which it was done suggested it was nothing more than a random flier, and so James nothing of it.

"Make yourself at home," John encouraged as he led the way inside.

James was just hanging up his coat when a peculiar gave him pause. "Uhm, John?" he began.

"Mmh?"

"There's a cat. Sitting on your counter." 

John glanced over his shoulder as he toed the boot off his good foot. "Oh. That's Betsy."

"I didn't know you had any animals," Flint mused as he drew forward to scratch behind the cat's ear. It was a rather pretty little thing. As far as cats went, anyways. White with splotches of gray and caramel brown, both of which darkened the tail that lazily flicked to and fro. The thing seemed to appreciate the attention for it began purring loudly as it chinned his hand.

"I dont, really," John admitted as moved into the kitchen. "She actually belongs to Randal."

James arched a brow. "Randal?"

"Oh. Uh, the landlord. He's got quite a few screws loose, but he's nice enough." Glass bottles could be heard clinking together as John rummaged around inside the fridge. "Beer okay?"

"Yeap." James supposed the only upside of alcoholism was the fact that he was never too picky about his choice of beverage. He gave Betsy another scratch, this time beneath her speckled chin, before pulling away. It wasn't until he was handed a bottle of Bud Light that he paused to properly take in the apartment that surrounded him. John's apartment.

It was quite... bare. If James had stumbled in here without a clue, he never would have guessed that a musician lived here. In fact, he wouldn't have guessed that anyone lived here at all. The walls were completely bare, and what few pieces of furniture existed held no personal items atop their surface. The only thing that showed this place was actively inhibited were the empty beer bottles on the counter, the bags of junk food abandoned on the coffee table, and the afghan draped over the couch. After giving it a prolonged glance, he recognized it as the one John had bundled around him that night on New Years.

The lack of personal effects was certainly surprising. Not that James was one to talk. It wasn't like the walls of his own flat were lined with photos or other pieces. Still, it seemed rather unusual.

"You don't seem to have a lot of stuff," James mumbled. With a sigh he squeezed his eyes shut, the man regretting those words the moment they left his lips.

John chuckled into the mouth of his beer before taking a sip. "Yeah, well... Growing up in foster care, getting bumped from home to home... you get used to it.."

"I'm sorry." James immediately offered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--"

At this John managed a laugh. "It's okay," he assured him, that soft light in his eyes. "It's okay. I don't know," he shrugged then. "I guess I never felt like I needed much, besides my guitar and the clothes on my back. I do have some stuff, mostly just junk, but all that shit's boxed up at Billy's."

James could have sworn that John had told him he'd moved out of Billy's apartment months ago. However, as he'd shoved his foot deep enough into his mouth for one night, he decided to keep silent on the matter.

Instead they dropped the subject entirely and moved forward with their evening. It was a feat that couldn't have been done if it weren't for John's cavalier attitude. He took no slight from James' thoughtless comment, knowing that it hadn't been made out of malice, and for that he was grateful. John seemed to be able to read into his intentions, even when he couldn't. And so they spent the next few hours lounging on the couch streaming Netflix. James wasn't exactly sure what they were watching, aside that it was some sort of crime show, as his gaze kept traveling over to John.

The man's feet were propped up on the edge of the coffee table, Betsy curled into a tight ball at the center of his lap. His eyes had long since fallen shut, as had the cat's, the gentle raise and fall of their chests practically moving in tandem. For the second time that night it appeared that John was about to fall asleep. Yet those blue eyes opened the moment James moved to brush a stray curl behind his ear.

"Mmmh...?" John hummed, lethargic. He shifted slightly, the movement enough to stir Betsy and drive her off his lap.

"Why are you so tired?" James asked, his brows knitted together. John had always been quite the night owl. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen John fighting to stay awake.

John rubbed at his eyes as he seemed to consider his words. "I usually take Xanax and Vicodin to help me fall asleep," he confessed after a moment. "Lately I've been trying not to... as much. An', well... I haven't been sleeping that great."

James released a soft breath. So that's it... "Well, as you look like you're about to nod off any second, what's say we get you to bed?"

John snorted. "Are you offering to tuck me in?" he teased.

"Come on," James groused half-heartedly, his hand extending to help him up off the couch.

Strangely, James couldn't help the faint sense of relief when John led him to the bedroom. This room, at least, felt lived in. It felt like _John._ A vintage guitar -or what he guessed was vintage- was mounted to the wall beside a series of faded band posters, and the bedside table held a photo of his band mates, as well as the others he had met. A pile of clothes had been tossed in the corner beside some magazines, and his bed sheets were just as disorganized as John left them at his place.

It took a few moment for James to realize that John was still firmly planted in the doorway. "You alright?" he asked, fidgeting with the edge of his t-shirt. He was almost afraid of the answer. What if John really didn't want him here?

John gave a faint shake of his head. "Yeah," he offered. "Yeah. It's just... strange."

"Strange?"

John smirked. "I don't usually bring people back here to watch tv. And when we go to bed together, it isn't to sleep. At least not right away..."

"Stop talking and climb in.."

The smirk on John's face only widened. "It just feels  pretty big, you know..?"

James offered a breadth of a smile. "I know..."

John removed the prosthetic and leaned it against the nightstand, right beside a crutch, before climbing beneath the sheets. Immediately he drew close to bury his nose against the crook of his neck. The stubble scratched wonderfully against his collarbone, and as if by instinct James wrapped his arms around him. It seemed that barely a minute had passed before John's breathing evened out, his form grew lax, and James could tell that he had finally drifted off to sleep. James shifted slightly into a more comfortable position, pressed his nose against those soft curls, and followed suit.

 

....

The room was pitch black when James awoke. According to the dull glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand, it was 2am. But what was more obvious than the early hour was the fact that he was alone. And he had been for a while, based on how the space beside him had grown cold to the touch. Yet within mere moments it became clear what had woken him, and that was the sound of retching.

_John._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me giddy. <3
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr!](http://angrypiratehusbands.tumblr.com/)


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